Showing posts with label dust. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dust. Show all posts

Wednesday, October 26, 2016

ABOUT A.W.



Blind Anna, Sam's housekeeper,
Could not tell when dust
Had turned the rugs grey
But Sam never minded.
When she made him tea
Her finger at the rim
Warned her to stop pouring.
Her temper was bad.
Nights he couldn't sleep
They might talk until daybreak.
Dying, she asked him to provide
Some words appropriate
For a conversation with God.

Friday, August 19, 2016

CHOICES



The dust from which I'm made
Had other plans. Sometimes
When I spend the day
Just staring out the window
Or twiddling a length of string
It whispers "You and your refusal
To eat mice! "

Tuesday, October 13, 2015

HOUSEWORK



Mind washes the dishes while Soul
Pushes a broom, gracefully inefficient,
Sending up clouds of dust which hang
A moment in the late afternoon light
Then drift down to the floor again.
“When is Body coming back?” calls Mind.
“Is Body coming back?” asks Soul.
“She looked so angry when she left!”
“You missed a spot,” says Mind.

Saturday, June 21, 2014

DUST, LIGHT, MUSIC




Through the window a shaft of light;
The dust dances; music plays
And only I to watch the dust
And only I to hear the music.
What year was this? Long gone;
If the dust next day had chanced
Or willed to join with other things
And so be born a man that man
Would be finding now his first gray hairs
Should I recognize him as he passes
Curling himself against the cold
I would think “I have not forgotten;
You were dust then but you danced
In a slant of light.”

Monday, April 28, 2014

NO INSTRUMENT



No instrument by which I’ve reckoned
Could tell me where the summer flies
No demon perched astride a second
Could say “Here, where my left leg lies
She loves you still, but on t’other side
You are for her as things that were
But safe among the dead reside.”

An unmarked border, no fence, no sign
“Your money is no good, your ways
Are strange to us. New stars shine
Than those you knew on other days.
Your marvellous lies none care to know.”
When did your pockets fill with dust?
But step lightly as you go
If strength won’t do then cunning must.

Monday, March 17, 2014

FROM THE HOTEL MANAGEMENT



It's always the same, afterwards: the shattered lamps, the light lying in the dust, dead, or near enough so. Easy enough to take care of the pieces of lamp, though some of them are sharp, and cut fingers are common. The glass parts can be melted and blown into chimneys again, and remounted on the metal parts, which generally don't break. A dent or two, perhaps - easy enough to hammer out.

No, the problem generally comes from the dead light, which tends towards a fretful outlook. Light doesn't like being dead (unlike doornails, say, or vaudeville, both of which find death to be  an easy, undemanding sort of condition). It rests uneasy, and persists in trying to illumine. Of course, being dead, what it mostly illumines are other dead things. For a phantom with weak eyes and a taste for reading, the Dark City must be a pleasant place. For respectable spirits, who like a bit of decent darkness in which to operate, it can be a problem. The skeletons in their closets have given up trying to sleep, whiling away the time with long, acrimonious cribbage matches.

Like any light, too, dead light brings shadows in its train. An ordinary shadow knows it's place; on the ground mostly, or thrown up against a wall. It doesn't hang around bars, trying to cadge drinks, or ride a motorcycle at two in the morning. It doesn't stand in the moonlight, it's hands in its pockets, making rude, overly accurate remarks about the living. Most especially, a nice, normal shadow doesn't sing. Dead light shadows do, and they are partial to being accompanied by instruments that quite obviously hate each other. Gongs, bagpipes and harmonicas were never intended to meet, and certainly not to fight over the soul of a tormented Strauss waltz.

Accidents happen. We know this; we accept this, albeit with an ill grace. It may happen that you - surely not on purpose - will break a lamp while you're here, and find yourself standing with your mouth hanging open (we've seen you in this pose; it's not attractive) over the corpse of the light. All we ask is that, when you leave, you take the dead light with you. Packing materiel is free, at the concierge's desk. We also offer very reasonable rates on shadows.