nine twisted dames: an encounter
the Muses
These days I strollalone, not waiting
for the Muses.
But somewhere –
swinging swords of sorrow,
breathing clouds of charcoal,
and rubbing their dirty noses
on the window-panes of seconds –
nine polka-wild-eyed naked ladies
hunt geniuses and lunatics.
I've seen 'em peeking
from the beer on Polk street,
all tip-toed squirming-sour in their swim caps
where the sun sets the color of whiskey.
I've seen 'em mingling with the riff-raff –
scribbling on tree limbs,
twirling smoke-rings
and whistling non-sequitors –
they reeked of honey-dew
and sprayed toilet water in the shadows of the multi-verse.
Well-versed upon the tongue-tips of the tongue-tied,
they plucked strings of signifiers,
weaving strands of delusion,
saluting the wind-falls of time.
Hell, I've seen 'em posted on a park-bench, licking lollypops,
screaming from the roofs of sky-scrapers,
submerged in the subways, strolling the supra-ways,
always I see them
it seems so to me.
Once I saw them running circles –
they looked haggard and worn.
Eyes wide like tomb-stones, with wrinkles like roots
and a madness like sorrow.
There I flung my despair at their fingers
and I screamed at the silence of time
till the words of my soul lay exhausted
and the whispers lay heaving,
and the silence lay bare.
O amnesiac angel!
they cried then,
These
are not burdens you carry,
but wings.
These aren't monsters you hide from,
but shadows.
And the howling within is the dragon-breath purring,
and the beast inside sighing,
and the mind therein blank.
Take that into yourself,
then point fingers at Heaven,
at Plato, at Newton –
all the fallen apples of the world won't bring you wisdom!
And they ran around giggling –
climbing the catacombs,
piled in heaps upon statues,
swinging from the crosses
and scrubbing the names off the templates
in the sacred city of our dead,
in the sacred cavern of this soul
swimming
in search of stillness,
screaming
in search of peace.
Then nine sets of their eyes lowered upon me
and nine sets of their fingers unbuttoned my clothes.
They threw me in acid water!
So I ROARED at the chaos,
and scoffed at the sight
of my sunken sad self sitting sprained in this filth,
at my sanity stained
by this maddened encounter with nine twisted dames!
yet I sat and knew then
what I stand and know now:
when I'd run through those mazes
and found them somehow,
they'd been shadows of selves
trailing me
all along--
now it's oh,
so amusing to me
that my Muses
have gone!
Poetry by sasha khrebtukova
Read 711 times
Written on 2007-03-12 at 17:15
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