XI.
(Lac de Jouarres)

{A.Antimirror}
My poem is an antimirror,
Chamber with too many doors going in
But no door going out.

My words are a cage which you look upon
You feel the clatter and scrape your fingers on this rusty shell---
Within silence recedes with my thought
Waves over rocks receding.

This poem is a lonely tower
And a boat passing to tranquility-bliss.
Death to the world that brings you hither.

No tourism.
Only blocks to build the inward cathedral:
Blocks of olive trees,
Blocks of blue sky where clouds race by
wind blowing round and round
in shouts and whispers through old pines
turning with my mind again;
blocks of emerald green lakes and ‘le promenade sur le canal’
blocks of white crystal from high hills and dark mountains
blocks of flowers,
tombstones…
blocks of morning teas---
boulders of theories
ideas of space-time
and Pasternak.
I am looking at you in an antimirror.


{B. Living Stone}
My word is living stone
My poem is window of life---
Heart of crystal
Water of life
Voice calling “Grow!”

Vision of unfolding nature
Suspended still in her cloudy water
Mist of mist
Man of man
Woman of woman
Before they fall into this momentary condensation of now.
How do you describe what precedes word?
The red that gives red its red?
Flame that burns my flesh.

Theatre of true life
Even if the fourth dimension is a hoax,
Another abstract intangible shadow.

Celtic Radio brings poetry to transmission
I am listening and listening hard

This poem is a gate into reality---
Not the reality of argumentation, doubt or disputation [which is not really real]
Reality answers only to “Yes”
Wakens only to praise.

A younger poet wrote:
When I look she is not there /
never really there
This poem is untrue
For that which makes present is as always was
And is as always will.

This poem sings of permanent beauty---
She remains!
The words of this poet are living stones.