Feb 5
THE SMELL OF TIME
my shadow
stick in hand
leads me through streets
as if flesh and
blood were unreal
the cobbles try to trip me
the sun
falls like rain
making golden the town
a squashed pomegranate
its seeds scattered
on a yellow patch of light
the smell of time
almost unbearable to the dead
and to the living
an unescorted soap bubble
ventures across the street
bursts on a cat's whiskers
the cat black as black
lives in its own private time
independent of the world's
for a fleeting second as I
pass by and appear in
a reflection on a brass door ****
an old woman
drowning in a shadow
becomes a shadow
her violet eyes close
time winds backwards to
her first kiss
my shadow escapes
leaving me all alone
wondering who I am
a ghost's laughter
time is
nowhere to be seen
*
All the disconnected joined up in an emotional join-the-dots...what the mind in camera mode elects to notice...the happenstance of life...an emotional osmosis...culminating in the death of the lady with the "Elizabeth Taylor eyes."
I had passed by her when she was alive and when I returned I heard people speak of her death...I didn't know her....but she was said to have been a great beauty in her youth and was much sought after and fought over.
She had just eaten her rice congee with rousong and zha cai as she did everyday at the same time.
The details were all totally independent of each other and were busy just happening to themselves. I was only aware of the woman's presence in passing and when I passed back that way she had vanished and a crowd was in her place debating all the details of her life....hence my knowing of them and so all the beads of thought that can happen at a moment's notice got strung as a necklace of happenings and her death which I hadn't witnessed except from overhearing the witnesses speak of her provoked the last three lines and how easy it is to be here and not here in the time that Time evaporates. The cat with the bubble on its whiskers was the last thing I observed before I entered the circumstance and commotion of her death.
my shadow
stick in hand
leads me through streets
as if flesh and
blood were unreal
the cobbles try to trip me
the sun
falls like rain
making golden the town
a squashed pomegranate
its seeds scattered
on a yellow patch of light
the smell of time
almost unbearable to the dead
and to the living
an unescorted soap bubble
ventures across the street
bursts on a cat's whiskers
the cat black as black
lives in its own private time
independent of the world's
for a fleeting second as I
pass by and appear in
a reflection on a brass door ****
an old woman
drowning in a shadow
becomes a shadow
her violet eyes close
time winds backwards to
her first kiss
my shadow escapes
leaving me all alone
wondering who I am
a ghost's laughter
time is
nowhere to be seen
*
All the disconnected joined up in an emotional join-the-dots...what the mind in camera mode elects to notice...the happenstance of life...an emotional osmosis...culminating in the death of the lady with the "Elizabeth Taylor eyes."
I had passed by her when she was alive and when I returned I heard people speak of her death...I didn't know her....but she was said to have been a great beauty in her youth and was much sought after and fought over.
She had just eaten her rice congee with rousong and zha cai as she did everyday at the same time.
The details were all totally independent of each other and were busy just happening to themselves. I was only aware of the woman's presence in passing and when I passed back that way she had vanished and a crowd was in her place debating all the details of her life....hence my knowing of them and so all the beads of thought that can happen at a moment's notice got strung as a necklace of happenings and her death which I hadn't witnessed except from overhearing the witnesses speak of her provoked the last three lines and how easy it is to be here and not here in the time that Time evaporates. The cat with the bubble on its whiskers was the last thing I observed before I entered the circumstance and commotion of her death.
