• Fragile Joys 22, 23, 24 - Three Poems of Mori

  • Oct 16 2023
  • Duración: 58 m
  • Podcast

Fragile Joys 22, 23, 24 - Three Poems of Mori Por arte de portada

Fragile Joys 22, 23, 24 - Three Poems of Mori

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  • Resumen

  • 22. 23. 24. Three poems of Mori:

    1. Japan, Harvest Moon, fall 1470:

    sunlight meets chandelier;
    now things get erotic.
    everything delights in opening. .
    the pleasure of colors spill out

    everywhere.

    the mood of lucency, moonlight. son of an emperor
    daughter of a peasant. uncreate mind’s insistence
    on alternatives (Wave? Particle?).

    her body, careless across bed. his lips to her warm wet.
    worship meets. mind silences. the Davisson–Germer
    experiment is made in love.

    now things get erotic
    everything delights in
    entering.
    (A person enters a room. The room has
    more than one door. The person must enter
    through one of them never all of them at
    once. An electron enters a room. The
    electron can, and always does, enter
    through all doors simultaneously.)

    the pleasures of wisdom spill out

    everywhere.

    2. Denmark, Cold Moon, winter 1067:

    After Loki I was the first to borrow Freyja’s cloak of falcon
    feathers. I flew to you. Flew across centuries and oceans.

    I could not bear the separation and so, not finding you
    quickly enough, I consulted the Thrice Burnt Thrice Born,
    the she-witch Gullvieg.

    She spoke:
    “I am sorry but there is nothing I can say that
    would not perchance dismantle, denude, destroy the
    careful contrivance you call ‘your life.’”

    And so, I lay down on pine bow bed, wildflower, arch of
    bones, Viking feast in the halls of Fólkvangr.

    I practiced the s
    e
    x

    magic of the old Norse: dwarves painted on
    the sides of barn timbers, the deep pull of
    ancient wells, the sorcery of touch wood,
    skin bag
    ermine gloves.

    Due to my being a man, she would not at first see me. But
    she was Freyja’s sister and so I told her it was of you. I
    knew she would understand the backward way of love; I told
    her you are my household. I told her that without you I

    have no poetry. She laughed like lunacy. “Love’s
    unknowings outweigh human contrivances,” she whispered.

    She burnt plants: henbane, mushroom, pine sap.
    She unmade man-ness, took away gendering.
    She went to her loom, loosened a knot in the woof,
    the ways in which you were hidden were undone.

    She tied a knot, the enemy was bound.
    She made me a finder of futures and pasts.

    That unsane sister tied the words ‘yours’ ‘mine’ to colored
    thread and wove them into the community of messengers

    the bird-headed females
    called envoys of sages.

    Then and there I unbecame and became again. Now, unlike
    that odd species called “men,” I am not endangered (or
    engendered) by womanly freedoms...

    When I die I will go with the half who journey to Freyja, to
    you. Let the men who only know battle go to Odin.

     
    3. Atlanta, Flower Moon, spring 2001:

    new moon’s darkness is a cloak
    a mantle over your
    shoulder.
    (I can’t quite remember anymore
    did I call you or am I the called?
    little matter.)

    now i journey down. my lips
    draw out threads of pleasure –
    a little art that weaver taught me.

    now my kisses open, disclose.
    now your hand invites, draws in.
    now this time, and that, are only.

    the milky way of your legs spread
    their beauty across the pilgrimage
    of my hands.

    your sighs balance my accounts and
    the three times become one.
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