Two Poems
David Anthony Sam Birth Season (after Rimbaud “Ô saisons, ô châteaux”) My soul is a ruined fortress of shattered stone. Seasons break me as water and ice fracture rock. I studied the book of magic for happiness, finding it misspelled. A liturgy of ancestors wakes me in the crowing of a long dead rooster. A lake of brash ice rattles as it disperses in wind. Seasons fragment me as water and ice make rubble. Why do you want to understand the pebble of my words? If I am ungraced by time, it is a common misfortune. Do not disdain my fractures: A puzzle of images jigsaws my life. Seasons birthed me for winter, my resurrection in its remains. The Art of Disharmony Unquiet the eye that sees atoms disassembled Learns in howls of surge grown high batter of angry walls Huddling beneath a crash of trees that twist to jests of shatter Pray by murmurs in swallows of dark roiling whirlwind Insignificant debris of us breaks remnant shoreline Carries my pieces I try stitching particulate wisdom Call monumental when we stack sand as if it barriers us The ears still roar the rush that atoms sang harsh wind |
|
