ÍKAROS ENVISIONING

Up high here
the air is clearer,
the centre of the sky
darkening to cobalt
as the pellucid sky
above a desert does,
and the reticulated mountain
ridges
are sharply cut and clear
to him.

This far from earth,
he apprehends not sights
so much as meanings,
imports, symmetries and
discordances,
and apprehends them
the more intensely
the further he gets
and the darker the air grows:
as though he goes progressively blind,
and meaning,
like a flavour he tastes,
grows that much stronger
to his senses.

Stars are visible.
And he is visible to them.
His vault has pushed him
to escape velocity,
and now he travels
with undiminishing speed;
but there is not, or
does not seem to be,
an infinity to travel in.
The vastness resolves itself
into nested spheres,
like the wings and drops
of an old-fashioned stageset,
containing him and
constraining his flight.

There are spheres
of air and fire;
beyond the spheres
of the Seven Archons
coming and going
like mechanical racehorses
in their tracks.
Beyond them, arm in arm
like intertwining scrolls,
twelve vast figures
girdle the topless and bottomless heavens,
Æons,
six of them below the horizon and
six above, the six
who have seen him leap.

The whizzing gears of heaven.
But he knows well enough
that heaven does not stop
with them,
that beyond them are spheres
they themselves have not heard of
and cannot imagine,
every one lifetimes wide,
containing lifetimes of labour
and errantry and laughter and tears
to cross before the next
can be reached.
He would put each one
inside him as he crosses it,
growing larger, growing toward
his own infinitude,
until at last he meets
his infinitude
coming this way to meet him.

But not yet.
He has not even reached
the first sphere of fire,
where who knows what awaits him.
He has ceased to speed
outward,
and only floats,
vertiginous and suddenly
heavy.

Afraid. Yes,
afraid and uncertain.

There is a name
for each of those powers
he must pass by, and the spheres
they make,
the Æons that compose them,
the suffering they occasion -
all one thing.
Once he remembers the name
of the first,
and has a voice to speak it with,
he would begin to cross.

But not now.
Already he is falling back,
the weight of his heart
tugging at him,
knocking at his iron ribs,
and he tumbles backward
out of the air,
head over heels,
onto the wax labyrinth
of his burning mind.


OTHER POEMS...


Exception

Engulfment

Rearview

Descent

Setting the scene

Superstition brings bad luck

Ctrl+Alt+Del

No, perhaps not

Residual order

Contrapasso

Ashtray

Alcoholic accordion

End season

Uncoiling spiral

First World

Ultimate reassurance

Figment

Bay of Naples

Rotting Fowl

Dried up

Words in music

Celtic heather

Émigré

Contrast

Hopeful linearity

Heat seeker

Fathering stars

TrazommozarT

SPECULAte

Wishing a bridge

Bibliomachy

Avian sleep

Borgesian

L.U.C.A.

Cosmic Surplus

Choosing the Edge

Kissing shock

Quantum Superimposition

Middle Stance

Blade inward

Germinate

Throw

Infant Chant

I can't seem to find my way

Night verses

Respond

Gusts

Enema Blues

Pagis page

Insurgence

Sikelia Aetna

My journey

Only

Body odours

Applebud

Simile

Another You

Impalpable

Possibility

Íkaros envisioning

Cups

Prickly Magnet

Reversion

Cortège

Almost the same

Vast Colonies

Forked painting

Seeding

Wastage

Epitaph

Fear List & Nightmares
[restricted +18]

Vampyrus


Waterhouse"s Roses

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Daubmir"s Rose


MAY

I

BREAK

YOUR

HEART

TONIGHT?


Rose Noire


The
Infinite
Divisibility
Of
Being
Where
Nothing
Is
Really
Connected
To
Anything
Else
Except
By
Language
As
You
Can
Always
Split
AtomoV
Into
Other
Levels
Of
Division
Down
To
Quarks
And
Electrons
And
More
And
No
One
Really
Knows
Anything
Very
Important...
Yet

Three Graces, by M Parkes - click to enlarge
Nothing fascinates me more
than the expanded reflection
of my spirit


What

Came

Before

The

Beginning

And

What

Will

Happen

After

The

End?



La Rose Noire de Daubmir


Not

only

is

nothing

good

or

ill

but

thinking

makes

it

so,

but

nothing

is

at

all,

except

in

so

far

as

thinking

has

made

it

so.

~ Samuel Butler ~