1
in my mind I sing songs
that know no endings
arias stretching into infinity
melodies without cadences
chords without resolutions
notes trembling in empty space
searching for a symphony to cling to.
looking blankly at the sky
i weave wings of sound
in my head
that I may fly
that I may fly.
2
i
have shed long ago
the
tears I would have shed now
if I
were less tempered
and
more naïve.
reality, that eternal curmudgeon,
having spared me no dagger thrusts
i leave to the rest
henceforth I shall live life detached
eyes closed to the world.
3
sometimes in the unconsciousness of sleep
i thrill at the sight of your
face
glowing like the sun
i awake
it is dark
i am alone.
4
do not take for granted
what nature seems to grant in excess:
the rising and setting of the sun,
the greening of the land,
waters swirling into creek or sea,
the rocks, flowers,
the very air we breathe.
do not take for granted
a lover’s touch
or a warming smile,
or the milk that flows
from a mother’s breast,
the song of the thrush
or the flight of a tern,
the clouds tinged pink with sunrise
or the stars peeping out
from behind the dark curtain of the sky.
what seemed to last forever
oft falls prey to man’s depravity.
the mountain that was is now a plain
a briny wasteland where nothing grows
over which a dusty wind
keens its sad lament
over and over again:
“ah, the loss! ah, the woe!”
5
I
used to be wise
in
the ways of reason
till
emotions rendered useless
my
skill at logic.
sure,
there is no sense
in an
attachment that may
dwindle
into a farce
but
who’s to say it makes no sense
while
it lasts?
love,
fools
say with passion,
is
its own reason for being,
a
conflagration stoked
in
the depths of a
barren
heart
that
will find love
where
it will
despite
the remonstrations of a cold
despairing
mind.
6
alaskan
landscape
dark jagged peaks
caressed
by fingers
of
silent snow.
ice
sliding down steep ravines
fracturing
, dissolving
in
the frigid ocean’s maw.
a lone eagle
shrieking
down from the heights
its
cry puncturing
the
silence of the trees.
the
wind rakes my face
with
icy talons
whistling,
growling, hissing:
“walk
where you will,
watch
what you may
but
know that I am lord
and
this land belongs to me!”
7
the
essence of love
is
distilled in an alembic of tears,
an
elixir
sweeter than ambrosia,
a
poison more potent
than
witches’ brew.
to
sip of it is to leap
from
the highest cliff
believing
one could fly
where
many have fallen
to
their deaths.
why
drink of it, then?
why
quaff a draught
of
life and death
in
equal measure?
because
love intoxicates
and
one forgets.
how
easily
one
forgets.
8
I
tasted love and found it sweet
with
a bitterness that numbed my lips
I
touched your hand and found it warm
as
the icy grip of an arctic storm
I
stole a moment from your eyes
that
hypnotized
and
told me lies.
when
loving fails
though
love be true
the
reddest sun
turns
darkest blue.
9
written
in the light of an absent face
my
love for you is indefinable
like
a lifting of the heart
at
the sight of a sunset.
so
what does this mean
this
melancholy that grips me
when
the sun disappears from view?
there
is always the moon
weaving
around itself a misty corona
and
the stars filling the night sky
with
their immutable brilliance.
I
love them no less
than
the sun.
but
as I
stand here at water’s edge
I
long once more for
a
sight of the sun’s face
splintering
and re-forming
on
the crests of dancing waves.
so it
is with you.
time
which
blurs or brightens memory
may
prove me a hapless fool
too
easily dazzled by transitory light
and
you, a creature
that
merely crossed my field of sight,
destined
to move beyond the edge of vision.
whatever
befalls me
(whether
love, fancy or mere delusion)
I
know,
have
learnt
that
sunsets are better seen than touched
for
the tremendous fire of the sun
will
consume and destroy
the
unwary and trusting heart.
10
to
chet baker
in
memoriam
music
killed him you know,
music
that soothes the breasts
of
savage beasts
rendered
him mad
with
her intoxicating beauty.
music
was his way out of mortality,
his
mistress luring him
to an
embrace of death.
when
he died
fallen
from grace
the notes he played in life
cradled
him in his grave.
11
i picked a pebble from the sand
and felt its form within my hand.
perhaps it had lain there for a
century
worn smooth by waves of a raging
sea
its surface shone like porphyry,
its color, blue as a twilit sky.
its shape was oval, soft and
sleek
like a teardrop falling down a cheek.
feeling it within my hand
that pebble I had picked up from
the sand
I thought of life and love and
other things
of little joys and little schemes.
of dreams I had that came to nought.
and, in this reverie, I thought:
my heart is like a pebble, too,
worn smooth by passions strong but
true.
12
to a waterfall
Juneau, Alaska, may 1992
rage on!
rage on!
rage on like me!
give form to existence
unshackled from destiny.
pound the rocks with your
rain-swollen hands
roar your mouthless wrath
and splash the gray sky
with drops of your icy blood.
let no mountain crag contain your
fury
or granite stand in the way
of your heedless rush
uproot the arrogant pine
from banks of bouldered streams
and splinter it to pieces.
be cruel! be cruel!
the sea will soon engulf you
and then you will be gone
so while the glaciers still feed
you
rage on!
rage on!
13
the hike
Skagway , Alaska
June 1992
part one
I caught the stillness in the air
when I paused to rest
panting for breath.
the stillness moved
for in the forest
halfway to the mountaintop
nothing is really still:
birds sing
trees creak
the wind scurries and slashes
through the leaves.
through the pines
I saw the town below me
nestled amidst blankets
of greenery and bay.
it seemed so far away
as if my gasps for breath
had lifted me beyond this earth
into a realm where rocks,
cyclopean and moss-draped,
and trees, bare
to where last winter’s snow
had buried them,
stood sentinel to a world
beyond human reckoning.
the trail angled sharply
and fallen logs blocked my path.
often the trail became
a stream or was simply lost
in a cover of snow,
though I never went astray and
followed the path of those
who had gone before.
on and on I carried
my protesting limbs and heaving
lungs
for, I reasoned,
having gone so far,
suspended between heaven and
earth,
why waste a minute more
even thinking of retreat?
i thought of sir galahad,
he of the holy grail .
like him I was (I thought)
searching for something, if less
divine,
yet no less true: a view.
part two
upper dewey lake
it wasn’t the sun that blinded me
nor the white of untrodden snow
nor the unclouded sky
itself of pure unblemished blue
nor the spired walls of
windblasted rocks
that rose above this reservoir
of slow-melting ice
nor the scattered stands of
dark-green pines
marching up the steep
snow-blanketed ravines
nor the distant mountain ranges,
glaciers glinting on their crests.
no, it was none of these things at all.
it was you.
it was you.
14
love at first is a worm
that writhes
in a mess of lust and greed
desire and need.
it flings itself and clings to
a sturdy twig
and spins itself in a frenzy
of longing and intrigue
till, spent,
it stops, sensing perhaps
that desire must cease
and give way to quiet feeling.
silently love broods there
in its cocoon
rough and gray outside
but within, silv’ry as the moon.
in the full flush of morning
as the dew melts into the sky
freed from its chrysalis
love becomes a butterfly
15
i must constantly touch the sky
or I will die
the slow death of those
for whom clouds mean nothing
or forests are for burning
or flowers are for trampling.
i must constantly sing
or I will grow numb
with the coldness of those
for whom birds trill no
enchantment
bees buzz no excitement
or breezes bblow no endearments.
I must constantly touch my heart
Or it shall grow cold
as a piece ofrock
gray, dark and grim.
When the wind rises
and chills my bones
and the light grows dim,
i shall build a fire
and warm my heart
and I’ll dream on
dream on.
16
i have no will
to change my ways
for something more
acceptable or apt.
and so I’ll live
the life I want
and never mind the rap.
manny panta
Dawn Princess
June 22, 1992
ALASKA
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