Utu Man (6) Flute Given Away

Дата: 07-04-2008 | 00:38:49

I gave water to an old man,
he gave me a flute.
I sat alone,
learning to play it.

The flute was pointing
to the ground,
its incandescent shape
the sound
still skulking
in the shade.

As formless wails
were earning form,
I probed with my
twined thrumming hands

the turquoise sky,
its copper foam,
the ornament of ruby geese
embroidered on its hem
by the last lingering cerise
ray gliding home.

Grandmother heard my flute
from the room
that she never left.
She told me: "Utu,
when I am dead,
play something on it
near my bed.

I want Ninedinna,
when she inscribes my name,
to be in a good mood,
so that my wedges are cleaner
and I seem
alive as my spirit
warms her writing reed."

The dawn sluiced down the slate
of our roof, rain-worn and flaxen,
but the pitchy drops of night
still wobbled in the cracks.

I watched, my leaden hand
over my eyes puffed up and moist,
the amber butterflies descend
to suck those bitter drops.

A boy drove goats on the lake
of dust and light
coalesced as our empty street.
He gave me his crook,
and I gave him my flute.

Тема: Re: Utu Man (6) Flute Given Away Вланес

Автор Клара Кобзева

Дата: 14-03-2010 | 15:57:49

Тут звучит вселенская грусть – уход физический через мозаику очень точно схваченных (в цвете, форме, осязании) деталей.
Опять таки не могу не удивиться гармонии восточной философии с западными символами (флейта, чёрный человек-посланец в предыдущем стихе этого цикла).
Одновременно грусть и радость освобождения.
С ув.,