Зимородок - [4]

Do they fear or worship the hand that feeds them,

Removes their dead, repairs the stonework;

The hand that brought their ancestors here

From another world in a wooden bucket?

Can they see that the hand moves more slowly now,

That the bony fingers have grown stiff with age?

Portrait of a room

Now, as a human life in this room

Is ebbing,

The attitudes of the objects

Become apparent.

The rocking chair

Stretches forth its arm-rests,

Ready to embrace, to lull,

To enthrall with the stories

Of a long life-time.

The mirror turns a blind eye

To all that is happening here,

Gazing intently

Into its own distant dreams.

The hospital bed knows

That it is seen as ugly,

Unwanted in every room that it enters.

Yet it goes about its work

Reliably and with care,

Keeping the patient

As comfortable as it is able.

It does its best to be unobtrusive.

The edge of the crystal vase

Glitters hard in the corner.

Being confined to a sick-room,

Enduring the dusty monotony

Of pathetic fake flowers —

This is not what it’s made for!

The curtains hold back the darkness,

Soften the mid-day light.

Catching the slightest motion of the air,

They stir like wings,

Like the white sails of a ship,

Sensing the wind, the space

Of a great invisible world.

Orbit

The Earth falls towards the Sun.

There are no elephants, no turtles,

No hand of Providence

For the world to rest on.

What keeps the planet in orbit

Is its unwavering observance

Of “the laws of nature”.

But what is inside those words?

Dead force?

A command backed by fear?

A solemn promise given long ago?

Or a bitter-sweet journey

On a freely chosen path?

Creation stories

To Orna Greenberg

In the story

Of the first creation

The Divine power

Lifts the supple clay,

To mold His image,

To imprint Her likeness.

The Divine breath

Enters the human shape,

Calls it to life.

The potter’s hands

Explore a lump of clay,

Stroke, press in

The hollow of the vessel,

Form the plump lip,

Extend the graceful neck.

The artist dips the brush

Now into paint, now into water.

An image blossoms:

Ocher and sienna blend;

The colors thicken —

Shadows outline the round rim,

The colors thin —

Light curves down the glazed flank.

You

Lift the clay jar,

Gaze at the painting,

Read these lines,

You

Have the power

To breathe into a creation

Awareness, thought, meaning,

Life.

Creation

It is possible to escape,

To hide from the darkness:

Squeeze your eyes shut,

Press hard on the eyelids.

Circles of phantom fire

Will blaze in front of your staring pupils.

Let us trade: I would barter

My past, my memory,

For a handful of stars,

For the dimmest of constellations…

But you drive a hard bargain

By simply refusing to exist.

In a blind rage

I splinter my heart into kindling,

Pour gasoline,

Set the whole mess aflame,

Watch as it burns to ashes.

But it keeps on beating,

It keeps on beating in the darkness.

There is nothing to do but sit.

Stare into the void.

Read the blanks on the empty page,

Over and over,

Till they form a pattern,

Till the repetition yields a meaning:

“Let there be darkness, for there is.”

There is darkness.

There is darkness.

There is darkness.

All there is, is darkness.

Until slowly, slowly

Contours form,

A faint outline emerges:

“Let there also be light.”

Realities

we create a thin veneer of simplicity and predictability

over terrifyingly unmanageable chaos

and call it reality.

Anastasya Shepherd

We call it reality

And consider the matter settled,

So we can turn our attention to

Making sandwiches for the school lunchbox,

Submitting the quarterly forecast report,

Walking the dog,

Writing the thank you note.

At least, that is how it is

For some of us,

Some of the time.

We collect data about it,

Quantify the uncertainty

Of our measurements,

Publish papers in academic journals.

We put ironic quotation marks

Around its edges,

Take selfies.

We blaze with anger about what it is,

Emblazon on our banners

What we want it to be.

We split into tribes, go to war,

Mangle and kill each other

Under the pretext

That there is one right way,

One right answer to every question

About the definition

Of a pin, a dance, an angel;

About the way to count how many…

We beat our heads against it,

Search for the path, the mantra, the koan,

Meditate, keep diaries,

Create sand mandalas of great beauty,

Sweep all the colors together,

Let the river carry them away

As we fall into insanity,

Rise to enlightenment,

Or the other way around.

We pick it up like a toy, a ball.

We run across sunlit grass,

Laughing,

Tossing it back and forth.

We forget it in the gathering dusk

Under the lilac bushes.

It is time to go back in,

To get some sleep.

At least, that is how it is

For some of us,

Some of the time.

Constructivism

Proof by construction is the path

That God Himself has set in math.

To prove that chaos can be transformed

Into a world, the world was formed.

A choir of angels came to be

Singing: “Hosanna! QED!”

But man, a thing of clay and dust,

Had little wit and too much trust.

Soon he was fooled and led astray.

And we, his children, to this day

Remain a weak and bounded race.

Induction for the finite case

Is all we do, till in the end

Each one must meet the final N.

But there is yet a baser proof.

It’s branded by a fiery hoof.

Proof by negation seeks to alter