The Exile’s Return

/, Blesok no. 13/The Exile’s Return

The Exile’s Return

The Exile"s Return
The City of Last Things
Wittgenstein"s House
The Study of Freud
Homage to Saint Cyril
The Language of Angels

It is the sound of water’s footsteps:
out of the equation for a word,
a province so vast its center is nowhere,
an angel’s language the blessèd tongue bespeaks.

Out of the equation for a word,
out of the shimmering river of speech,
an angel’s language the blessèd tongue bespeaks.
A river of memory. A voluble silence:

out of the shimmering river of speech,
where stones drift and carry, particles of light:
a river of memory, a voluble silence.
From ash, lifted from a warmth that’s past,

where stones drift and carry, particles of light.
Out of the south the incunabula rose,
from ash, lifted from a warmth that’s past,
flowing north to Moravia, Serbia, and Russia:

out of the south the incunabula rose,
these silences I do not understand,
flowing north to Moravia, Serbia, and Russia:
a rhythmic hymn, rivering.

These silences I do not understand:
It is an illusion that thoughts are in our heads

a rhythmic hymn, rivering.
We are like the sea, and the stream

It is an illusion that thoughts are in our heads
We are whole only in our thoughts
We are like the sea, and the stream
Curving through the heart of the sea

We are whole only in our thoughts
Out from the shores of Thessalonika and Ohrid,
Curving through the heart of the sea

prophets carried the ikon of glagolithic runes.

Out from the shores of Thessalonika and Ohrid,
cresting the white arch of a wave,
prophets carried the ikon of glagolithic runes:
a love of words, eternal as wind.

Cresting the white arch of a wave,
to trap the voices of the wind in bars
(a love of words, eternal as wind),
he bonded fragments into a cage of letters:

to trap the voices of the wind in bars.
And the wild Khazars heard his prayer:
he bonded fragments into a cage of letters,
saw their offerings rise, like birds, and vanish.

And the wild Khazars heard his prayer,
a voice in song, pretending to be heard:
saw their offerings rise, like birds, and vanish.
Placing the last gold coin on his tongue, he died.

A voice in song, pretending to be heard:
a province so vast its center is nowhere.
Placing the last gold coin on his tongue, he died.
It is the sound of water’s footsteps.

Thessaloniki, Makedonia

AuthorP.H. Liotta
2018-08-21T17:23:55+00:00 March 1st, 2000|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 13|0 Comments