readingjouga's posterous

JOUGA
 

three on their way [1]

What do we wish to know?

Architect or mathematician,
cartographer, draughtsman, linguist, poet,

a name is given, as soon forgotten.

The giving is forgetting,
written in this,

the unspeakable beauty of snow,
brutal and sensuous, a language long ago.

The three men disagree.

Colors, depth, knowing thyself,
maps, the moon, the way words go round.

You wish all right.

Posted September 11, 2011
 

three on their way [2]

Eagle!

Pictured three colors, two eyes to see depth,
self monitoring its movement.

The ocean!

Drew data, maps, distances,
the craters of the moon.

His ferocious appearance!

Recognized the plate tectonics of speech.

Posted September 11, 2011
 

three on their way [3]

The circular darkness knows
what plunges in the heart is gone.

Inspired by your landscape, the given, forgotten,
its inexplicable softness and flexibility,

its radical inclination toward water,
toward zero gradient,

enlightened,

the eagle must fly,
no time to waste to no crow,

must fly

as it flies now, ferociously,

the length of heaven and hell, the ocean,
and back, and again,

many nights of breathing.

Posted September 11, 2011
 

bones in exile [1]

Since you died I cannot sleep.

If I do, I meet you
in dreams and mugwort arrows,

three thousand darknesses

in this world of life.

Posted September 11, 2011
 

bones in exile [2]

Elegance truly to be feared,

on the shore a single pine,
moonlit layers of rocky cliffs,

island, waste,

the delicate needles densely.

Posted September 11, 2011
 

bones in exile [3]

When the east wind blows,
not plum.

Chrysanthemum.

Flew, withered, minister of the night.

I was nauseated and my horse ached.
I was exhausted and my words were weak.

Posted September 11, 2011
 

off and on [1]

You find me
my heart again

on that island off the Atlantic.

Blissful island, the insects bugging you.

Mosquitoes?

Must be mosquitoes.

Posted September 11, 2011
 

off and on [2]

Maybe the silences are
not about this,

not about that,


a grounding?


The empty set a truth of stone
to jump off from, walk freely,


sooner or later meaningfully.


There’s always that island
off the Atlantic.


Your heart can be found
again, yet, and indeed,


those mosquitoes are active.

Posted September 11, 2011
 

off and on [3]

I visited The Truth in April.
I said, look serious, and she did.

Drinks were offered.
Unreasonableness of the heart was measured

in the number of emptied vessels.

Blissfully wasted, off the Atlantic,
the island endeavored

thoroughly to become the mosquitoes.

Posted September 11, 2011