Is there still…? Is there still time? Is there still time to be human? Everywhere, every-fucking-where this storm of separation, this vertigo, this howling and this yelping, this moaning, this plea to end the pain, this trumpet of the angel of death, of the angel of bleakness, this abandon to isolation, this anguish, this torment! In every house, in every home, in every garden, in every hallway, in every painting or photograph suspended on a wall that never protected anyone from anyone else – this bleeding! The eyes and the faces, the trees and the boats and the potted plants, the discolored fruit on the tables in picture frames – exploded, detonated, turning to ash: singed snowflakes trickle to the ground in piles, left and right. Everything every-fucking-thing disintegrating into swarms of wingless butterflies, blown up by this clashing of easterly and westerly gales, blown away – not to fly, but to fall. And accumulate. And cover the earth. Like merciless hail the size of balled fists, like rot and like locusts, this earth where our lives used to grow all fresh and immediate and full-bodied and zesty… And fragile. And all the poets now sleepless or haunted. Is there still space? Is there still space to be human? ‘Here begins eternity,’ reads a big sign above the entrance to the cemetery. Here, where people turn into quiet bones, or maybe up on a hill, in the middle of nowhere, where violent indigo storms are brewing amid endless fields of pure yellow grains, and weak, so weak, the fragrance of the lonesome linden. Is there still…? … money to be made and lives to be lost, answers the echo. And as we shore up empty spaces, and as we run into ourselves and disengage, and as we move away from each other’s mess, each other’s weakness, and each other’s pain, we miss each other, don’t we?
when she first discovered water
she did not go in.
she stood hypnotized. it was too wonderful.
she was, like the lot of us,
gripped by a fear of drowning,
arrested by the vastness and the gleaming.
to discover beauty is to discover
the heaviness of self and the terror
of irreversible sinking.
but look at her now, floating expertly on her back,
swaying with the waves
in her hair,
glistening like a fish,
all serene smiles and joy
and relaxed muscles.
she has not mastered water.
she has mastered herself –
(the high art of belonging)
and now water buoys her,
offers her up to the sun
cupful by cupful by cupful.
Copyright 2019-2020. A. Sepi. All rights reserved
Luminous torrents of calmness.
The sun, shining, muffles the sounds of everything but the birds.
Our inner discord is rendered quiet.
Brightness explodes in every hidden corner.
Graves and hills bake in the heat, grow bellies of grass,
Sweet violets spill their inebriating fragrance.
Amidst it all, elongated shadows of men move along the sidewalk
like insecure writing,
trying to make sense.
Copyright A. Sepi 2017. All rights reserved