Siren Limits

I

Suddenly becoming talkative / like weaverbird / Summoned at offside of / dream remembered // Between sleep and waking, / I hang up my egg-shells / To you of palm grove, / Upon whose bamboo towers // Hang, dripping with yesterupwine, / A tiger mask and nude spear ... // Queen of the damp half light, / I have had my cleansing, / Emigrant with air-borne nose, / The he-goat-on-hcat.

II

For he was a shrub among the poplars, / Needing more- roots / More sap to grow to sunlight, / Thirsting for sunlight, // A low growth among the forest. // Into the soul / The selves extended their branches, / Into the moments of each living hour, / Feeling for audience // Straining thin among the echoes; // And out of the solitude / Voice and soul with selves unite, / Riding the echoes, // Horsemen of the apocalypse; // And crowned with one self / The name displays its foliage, / Hanging low // A green cloud above the forest.

III

Banks of reed. / Mountains of broken bottles. // & the mortar is not yet dry ... // Silent the footfall, / Soft as cat’s paw, / Sandalled in velvet in fur, // So we must go, eve-mist on shoulders, / Sun’s dust of combat, / With brand burning out at hand-end. // & the mortar is not yet dry ... // Then we must sing, tongue-tied, / Without name or audience, / Making harmony among the branches. // And this is the crisis point, / The twilight moment between / sleep and waking; / And voice that is reborn transpires, / Not thro’ pores in the flesh, / but the soul’s back-bone. // Hurry on down — / Thro’ the high-arched gate — / Hurry on down / little stream to the lake; // Hurry on down — / Thro’ the cinder market — / Hurry on down / in the wake of the dream; // Hurry on down — / To rockpoint of Cable, // To pull by the rope / the big white elephant ... // & the mortar is not yet dry / & the mortar is not yet dry; // And the dream wakes / the voice fades / In the damp half light / like a shadow, // Not leaving a mark.

IV

An image insists / From flag pole of the hearty / Her image distracts / With the cruelty of the rose ... // Oblong-headed lioness — / No shield is proof against her — / Wound me, O sea-weed / Face, blinded like strong-room — // Distances of her armpit-fragrance / Turn chloroform enough for my patience — // When you have finished / & done up my stitches, / Wake me near the altar, / & this poem will be finished ...