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#grahamstown
Musk. Wind whispers mysteries in the form of it; it thickens thin air until it turns black, black enough to hush. Wind, being black, absorbs your thoughts, makes violent curls of them; thickens, thickens thin air until it transmogrifies into pages and pages stained black with disaster- as if a hurricane crumpled those could-have been white aeroplanes, potential papered to fly, and flung them into the pit of your mind to sink              deeper and                             deeper and                                           deeper until your poems were written and the casualties numbered: each line a suicide of a thought that could have been, each syllable ink-stained and bloodied black by artistic integrity, or madness: the same. This wind is your hair. This wind is your territory. Not mine. Never could I have met you here, in this place of your solitary being: where real poets exist. I am not a hurricane: and I am not your disaster. I have learnt and re-learnt how useless it is to define you in terms of myself; how useless it is to define you at all. A rationalist like me can never truly understand what it is to be part of your endlessness, the sheer mountainous immensity that constitutes your thrill. Yes, your hair fascinates me as much as any ancient, spiralling, far-away Andromeda- but the fact that even now,  I've already tried to limit you with words shows the absoluteness, the solidity, the density of my misunderstanding of your... your... And real poets know that rationalists are fools. You know I am a fool. I write these meagre verses with unreachably cold computer technologies thinking that these words could somehow save us. Yet, simultaneously, I am some drunken nuisance knocking vehemently at your door, who turns and strolls away right before you finally answer. I am a fool going home and seeing clouds in the darkness. It is my first time seeing them in the sky. First time in nearly a month. The moon illuminates the clouds, and so do the towers of highway lights in the middle of two roads. One road leads forward, the other backwards. As the car passes the towers, the two lamps attached to each of their heads glow. They streak on as the car speeds on homewards. They leave fading tails like shooting stars, except they do not travel. They are stagnant mind lights, peripheral memories; unmythical, artificial. They are not like you. When I pass you, You.... You... You. Please, never believe- for even a whisper of musk to yourself; for even a black hush, to yourself; for even one sliver, one strand of Andromeda hair, falling towards yourself- that Grahamstown didn't mean anything less than Eternity to me. It does. I am not a hurricane. I am not your disaster. You are far too much of yourself for me to be even a zephyr to you.
0
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC
tawandamulalu
Grahamstown Wind.
Musk. Wind whispers mysteries in the form of it; it thickens thin air until it turns black, black enough to hush. Wind, being black, absorbs your thoughts, makes violent curls of them; thickens, thickens thin air until it transmogrifies into pages and pages stained black with disaster- as if a hurricane crumpled those could-have been white aeroplanes, potential papered to fly, and flung them into the pit of your mind to sink              deeper and                             deeper and                                           deeper until your poems were written and the casualties numbered: each line a suicide of a thought that could have been, each syllable ink-stained and bloodied black by artistic integrity, or madness: the same. This wind is your hair. This wind is your territory. Not mine. Never could I have met you here, in this place of your solitary being: where real poets exist. I am not a hurricane: and I am not your disaster. I have learnt and re-learnt how useless it is to define you in terms of myself; how useless it is to define you at all. A rationalist like me can never truly understand what it is to be part of your endlessness, the sheer mountainous immensity that constitutes your thrill. Yes, your hair fascinates me as much as any ancient, spiralling, far-away Andromeda- but the fact that even now,  I've already tried to limit you with words shows the absoluteness, the solidity, the density of my misunderstanding of your... your... And real poets know that rationalists are fools. You know I am a fool. I write these meagre verses with unreachably cold computer technologies thinking that these words could somehow save us. Yet, simultaneously, I am some drunken nuisance knocking vehemently at your door, who turns and strolls away right before you finally answer. I am a fool going home and seeing clouds in the darkness. It is my first time seeing them in the sky. First time in nearly a month. The moon illuminates the clouds, and so do the towers of highway lights in the middle of two roads. One road leads forward, the other backwards. As the car passes the towers, the two lamps attached to each of their heads glow. They streak on as the car speeds on homewards. They leave fading tails like shooting stars, except they do not travel. They are stagnant mind lights, peripheral memories; unmythical, artificial. They are not like you. When I pass you, You.... You... You. Please, never believe- for even a whisper of musk to yourself; for even a black hush, to yourself; for even one sliver, one strand of Andromeda hair, falling towards yourself- that Grahamstown didn't mean anything less than Eternity to me. It does. I am not a hurricane. I am not your disaster. You are far too much of yourself for me to be even a zephyr to you.
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