Stones of the Sun
a cut-up poem by: Paul Lastovica
sourced from Octavio Paz's 'Sun Stone'
via "Configurations"
a New Directions book
Catalog# 78-145932






The Circle of the Moon
_
course of a star
course of a journey
of light pecked away by birds
and the annunciation of happiness
behind a stillness which goes disappearing
out of hand
like a song of the wind
or the course of a river


_
Under arches of light
bodies among the world
naked as thoughts
among eyes as water
the church of two breasts
divided by light under arches
and parallel mysteries of the blood
burning like the moon


_
the jewels of thirst are burning
running among enormous trees
no one is here
no one is here
facing all the rains of autumn
a bodiless past that falls away
stepping upon an invisible road of mirrors
no one else is here


_
writing of fire on a slab of jade
golden & transparent
the light of far off arcades
emerges and scatters a nest of eagles
now a star, the circle of the moon
walking onward to a new body
like encroaching ivy
or a cleft in the rock



A Face of Flames
_
the names of all things coursing deliberately
through circular days torn from zero
forcibly intertwined within a sightless forehead
in an anicent gesure
unified in one relentless name
heaping up high and empty horrors
centuries and centuries crumble away
shut behind so many eyes


_
the past is still passing
endless, obstinate
in the silence of the present
returning forever to the starting point
and these open wounds put forth roots
growing inward
to an enormous yawn of midnight
mourning the eyes of one thirsty man


_
looking from the begining of time
like lightning frozen into an axe
a bird shrieking at dawn
it's forgotten name
drowning itself in clarity
beneath the precipice
eaten by the sun
a few feet of skin on bones, grunting among hogs


_
this single moment never stops opening
black-green and enormous
drinking all the light, another life,
buying gardenias, watching stains form on the walls
without a word
without a word
coming back in another life
the sparrows drink of dawn




Madrid, 1937
_
somebody dressing
outside it is always raining
somebody combing hair
in a gulf of invulnerable brilliance
the room lit bright as spring
going to the origins
rooms that are ships and discolored paper
with greeness dispersed in waves


_
everything is transformed and sacred
each room the center of the world
open to the sea
laying at the foot of a tree
the room like a fruit splits open
like a star among silences
like a hand gathering riches
invisible barriers & decaying masks, all thrown down


_
the world is transformed when two people look at each other
great wings shoot forth from the shoulder of the slave
love is to take off names and recognize fantasy
so wine can be wine
ferocious passions and delirium
grind into nothingness an invisble flower
caught between two mirrors
changing eternity to hollow hours


_
following rooms into rooms into streets
into and along walls of stairs
speaking like a river above-head
a thousand birds among wheat
throbbing as cables snap
between two people shaken and enlaced with grass
under a timeless sun where all begins again
where the world grows fresh & green




The Life of a Hundred Suns
_
the first murder is the prophet's mouth
the mouth of foam crying
why, why
the rattling throat of a wild boar
the banquet, the exile,
the unbelieving gaze of a dead man
of a life getting itself born crying
why, why


_
and then nothing, only the flickering eyelid
untouchable, the eyes are aflame
staring sightless, speaking wordlessly
to a monument of mirrors
covering the sky with symbols
of the one who touches with flame
all the people's cries
to carve an impassive mask


_
body and flesh of the world
opening hands for a day of immortality
for seeds that are days
rising and growing beyond eternal horizons
the mother of liquid midnight
empress of daybreak awakens a thirst for peace among ashes
for a true and central face
which gives depth to death


_
gateway of being
deep among the dreams of stone
everything speaks now
everything is transformed
unfastened of swaddling cloths
songs of imprisoned blood
of persons intertwined
a song of gateways falling to decay




A river goes on curving, arriving forever.
_

10/27/2021

Author's Note:

without doubt, the most ambitious cut-up poem I've endeavored to compose.

Posted on 10/27/2021
Copyright © 2024 Paul Lastovica