Saturn’s Dove

Strain and death
and all other supposed human recognitions and ideologies
about the great unspeakable whimsy
that fills every space with nothing
and slathers matter with Shiva
and spinning images wrought out of time
and mind,
that giggles with joyful youthful eerie glee
speaking in tongues and out of fountains
and holes in sides of mountains and Rub Al-Khali
and Konya and graveyards the world over
wriggle and begin to dance with surreptitious
the great market of time bustles and rustles with
money changing hands bought sold and traded,
and all things commercial and transactive
skip and jump like rats round the feet of the saints.

For more than six hundred years
a flaming dove has been praising his maker
on the wing, and now rests finally
in the throat of an angel
clear as unfettered glacial ice,
voice rising eastward from the venus
of youth, cresting mercury and
settling in dustfields long blown
by excited winds
an opening for the breath to pour
into and through
upon hearing his impossible song
I fell, frontways into a fantastic
coloured abyss, streaking
through chasm after chasm
until I came at last to a meadow;
where secret insects revealed their
peculiar geometries to me with
loving grace, and where the light
touch of the morning wind
sowed seeds of saturnalia
second to none in my spine,
and the insects turned to me
and whispered gently in my ear
the following words, which
were not words but all things:
“There are joyful and utopian
of careless well-being
side by side with
disquieting elements of
threat and danger.
forget everything, forget the self
forget the heart, the mind, the
personality, the body, forget
the very eyes and mouth, the ears
which hear these words, inside and out,
original nature, immaculate purity
unchanging clarity of mind
never been nor will be
not then nor there nor near
nor far
forget distinction, classification
figuring out, making sense of,
wanting to know, forget these
chains, forget these chains and let
them clank wordlessly to the ground—
forget locality, in time or space,
nothing is where it is or is not
nothing is
nothing is not
neither of these statements are true
the previous statement is false
as is the previous statement to this,
and this, and this, and this
forget them, they hold no grudges
they were never real to begin with
forget your self
forget forgetting
what remains?”

nothing but the impossible song
of a flaming dove in the throat
of the one he praises


2 thoughts on “Saturn’s Dove

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