LIGHTBODY

	“Then I had the most marvelous piece of luck	I died.”
							-  Cathy Park Hong, Sonnet

i am that am i 	aware 
of a room in fisheye, watching
the lie of the body that dies
bruised white, wan blue,
draining violet									
         in the shell
                   of life on earth

black is the claw	dragging
at my pull and tunneling
past the trauma on the table							
to Christ’s colossus: all walled cave
           cast in home video
                       where every etched name
                       moves a life in review

love is that is love	a mirage							
of heat at the breast, sweltering
the souls of close encounters
into calling cards: mother, father,
pouring light
	into the cave									
		of life on birth
                             (on birth)
                                    (on birth)

all black is the hand		guiding
my pull into a transmuted past:							
a faraway work of breath on earth –
to think it takes death to learn
that it was all me
	and it was all on me
		but did i learn?							

a lightbody chewing on every choice
closed off to the great gate of going
					                   going
						                  gone.


free ambient drone sound effect from Pixabay
free unsplash image from Casey Horner

lightbody

1998, desember

ek het aanhou tussen drome wissel
soos die desember son die lug laat smelt
met die golwe van die geeste se dans
wat toor en draai oor die horison lyn
die skeiding van land en lug, lug en see
en ek in die middel, alleen en vry

verwonderd deur die vrees, my siel was vry
om te dwaal tussen die golf se wissel	
van dit wat my hart oorspoel, my eie see -
om vir die eerste keer te sien hoe smelt
die branders oor die sand se korrel lyn
en te weet dat die strand se water dans

op die ritme van groet en vlug - die dans
wat geanker lê aan land, maak my vry
sing die gedruis van 'n golwende lyn
wat los wil breek en soos seemeeue wissel
deur die hellings van die lug om te smelt
met die wysheid van die wind: die droom see

waar ons herhinneringe waai, my see
waar ek geleer het met toe oë dans
saam alles wat ek moes voel, en ek smelt
met die vure, kyk hoe brand dit my vry
kyk hoe gloei die verlede en wissel
oor al die jare van my lewenslyn

die kind, seun en man lê in daardie lyn
van was, wat is en wat sal kom - my see
ek verdrink in jou draai en jou wissel
ek sien gedaantes wat op water dans
ek was nooit vry nie; ek ketting my vry
die water was nog altyd vuur, ek smelt

saam met die gety 
ek smelt 
en ek smelt
binne die skeiding van 'n enkel lyn
wat dui die hemel en die hel is vry
ek val en styg tussen die twee, my see
is 'n maniese towerspel en 'n dans
waar maskers van gesigte af wissel

ek smelt onder die branders van my see
met 'n lyn wat tussen die pole dans
en ek word vry in 'n wit en swart wisselling.

simptome

ek is in 'n droom
waar hande begin bewe
soos die kop verdwaal

ek is in 'n droom
waar alles soos sterre blink
met kleur wat hol is

ek is in 'n droom
waar vreemdelinge in my
gesig wakker word

ek is in 'n droom
weggeskei van die wêreld
wat my dood beplan

ek is in 'n droom
wat binne my kop bly sing
met gesnyde klank

ek is in 'n droom
waar my stem breek in stemme
soos skerp stukke glas

© Eben Roelofse, 2015



Public domain image: https://www.nga.gov/collection/art-object-page.182273.html

1998, Desember

work in progress

This Is Not An Exit

a rendition of melissa broder's poem, taste tombs, found in her latest poetry book/anthology "last sext"

taste tombs

There might be something trying to speak with me. Associations. Togetherness inside a cup of tea. I think it’s intimate here. The windows are rain drenched, open, soaking my pillows in mother nature. Maybe I could wait here forever. Maybe I could write curtains for the windows and write shelves into the wall and maybe my books won’t be in boxes then. Maybe we wouldn’t be so different then. Maybe the night won’t choke me then.

I’ve found a way to sleep. A way to keep away from where I’ve come.

Rule number one: never find yourself in a mirror. If you do, avoid the eyes, avoid the smile, stay complacent in the shy boy symmetry of looking down.

Rule number two: moisturise. you never know who you might meet in the astral sphere.

Rule number three: build a room in your mind’s eye. Make it a cave. Make the moonlight pool across the caverns. Make the oceans the keeper of your wellbeing. Give yourself waves. Make your hair a vessel for the stars and let the sky dream into your open palms. Be bare and wear the shroud of your becoming.

Rule number four: look often at old pictures and photograph albums. A memory isn’t trapped in time. It moves through time in old cardboard boxes stacked over the jubilee of suicide notes, the remnants of moving, growing, have you grown? I’ve grown out of myself. I am so much older now, but the child with sad eyes still makes his bed in me, still kicks his slippers under the roots of trees looking for a blanket of leaves and an arm to sleep in and a wind to whisper to. And sometimes he just wants a camera to capture the quiet lull in a lover’s eyes. Be reminded that love moves through time too.

Rule number five: Love. Go get it.

simulatingyou

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