A particular blur
attended my mind
from end to end.

These feelings
of futurelessness.

To free fall into it.

It feels like winter,
the light overcast
and the day lit up
from within.

To find a line in it.

I found a world
torched into renewal,
blackened stalks
pointing skyward.

I took fortification
from goneness.
At this end
the notation is green.

No stopping music
entering air
and tearing air,
the songs
were old songs.

They came
with the wren
and the robin.
Also the crow
so dear to reality
and elegy
and traffic,
its essential din.
The synesthesia
of the din.

From this end
of sadness
I identified
the voice as dead,
it was companionable.
I identified sky
turning topaz.

I did not
understand shadows,
did not understand
luminosity.

I did not understand
the code that held
me to the world.

From this end
glistening leaves,
cool air.

Wandering out into it,
wondering through it,
the day crumbles to dust
inside a blue dahlia.

I am that dust and dahlia.

I am coeval
with the rotting trunk
and the pine needles
regenerating soil.

I am happiest
with the forest floor,
branches listing
under a porcelain sky.

I’m into that medieval
light glancing
through leaves.
The tree’s arches
are a great
kingdom now.

From this end
of sadness
there’s nothing
out there I want
and wonder
if there’s anything
in here I need?

I’m into the way
the technology of an I
is filled with the dead.

I’m heavy with light
when the old sun
is speaking,
when I’m not sure
the day is real.

When it’s hard
to be in and of it,
to be here with it
and under it.

From this end of sadness
shapes come,
all the boldest shadows.

From this end animals,
the oldest eyes,
the cri de Coeur,
afternoons hung
with seeping light.

Poor sun,
waiting to die.
Poor sun
solo in space,
fueling
our heads,
a tiny sun
in the mind.

Right now,
a particle
decays
on the lawn.

From this end
gravity decays
in the mind.

Never to forget
the corners
and dust bunnies
of the laughing sun.

But if the song
weren’t a bright star
hanging in
the firmament
then what
can be said
for burning embers
in the fire.

I see you turning
and bending there
in the cold dream
of the past
braiding
with the now
of blur.

Blur with me
when I am sick
of dying,
fearful of failing
the song I love.

Be with me
whenever I sit
wasting days.

Comfort the hours.

 

 

Photograph © Joe Cross

Three Poems
Joanna Kavenna
and Peter Pomerantsev
In Conversation