Requiem
auf einer Stele
Antonio Diavoli

I.

und dies sind die polierten Knochen
der Poeten in meinem Fleisch

 

 

Carved among the names of the dead, where the voice grows old, images lie underneath awaiting other roots to be sucked up. Ants climb slow. All falls into the seasons of your face, for all comes as a season. Spring time is yet as perfect for death as the imagination of winter hacked by the axe. The tongue of the dead in the mouth of the living, while Time succeeds Time, unheard and reconciled. The ear is a trap. The mouth as well. All words grounded down lie bare, flesh-compelled, start meaningful occurrences. They came to this side in a twitch of nerves, across a doleful distance in the brain wires, to pursue the pattern as ever before. The body is where one starts from. This you like to think of in the general mess of every kind of other failures. At first to deal with some abstraction in all manner of thing, visible and delightful, propitious and dignified, though you believe you might have read it all a long before, in a sort of purest affection. The bones gather tails of air. And there’s no end to the voiceless lament of death and birth. D The world of spirit has its ways, like the snow that stops, hearing doors and windows in a blind alley, has its contraction to water. The desiccation of the salt traces other directions that never were before nor fell into the quiet inoperancy of the eyes. The words are paralysed on the glass, the lips’ standstill. The missed meaning is in a sudden illumination. The lost one was deceived in the use of words. Knowledge - all that seems the accessible one - is inscribed already. And again, in spite of that, it requires a total care. This brings a little more consciousness yet verses are not predictable like flies of birds across the eyes. That’s not in itself desirable, a good fortune or not, it just owes to those circumstances. What was to be the unexpected value of those experiences? Dust on a sleeve from the collar fallen, is not liable to any destination. It is what the dead tree leaves. Few words keep the same likeness as the whole. Movement and images of unequal duration: the direction is to move in measure. The aim is this. The incompetence of the eyes wenn dir das alles eines Tages egal ist. The stare into some whiteness that slowly turns transparent. The rooms are dead around. The mother’s eyes within the eyes look after the things: is this a wrung neck hanging from pine trees? a nest? the swans’ cage? What falls aside? The things castonly shadows on the paper, perpendicular, the “where” to build up abodes on, from which to speak like from one’s body, for only through the body life is delayed. The word detexts itself before. This is some of the material work, which is closest to the living. To speak into the silence and it slowly turns visible. Words open circles, squeezing the heat of breathing and all pain is frostbite. All rests on some subtraction of meanings from silence. The buried petals swallowed in the other side of stones. The grass smells of trees. Words light up the days. Bright windows past and future, which we take our seat before. What can’t be heard: the walk of ants across the withering into the wind’s annunciation nor the shabby equipment of the sailors to turn inside out the guts of biting fishes. That cannot be deciphered under lamplight by the strength of some complete devotion. Das Radio schweigt und Gott auch. Das unsichtbare Ohr in der Uhr. Water and fire laugh without mirth, at human folly: the dead can state that also for those who were never dead before, the spirits, les serpents qui pêchent, after the angelus hour. Where the flesh is removed the bones remain. And all the poetry cries in its bones endlessly, wherein the long hoped calm, the quiet voice of age has not reached it yet. And all that counts within numbers to infinity, points to an end and cannot bear much reality and there is no end - the end itself is endless - und nur das Rechnen im Schlaf. The named and the unnamed through its articulations, the ancient prayer of the bones within the same body, its inner multiplicity, it never stops saying and meaning. The named is mask to the unnamed, like the ego is mask to the most of the self, and the “you” is some mask of me, a dry husk of being beyond the world of figures. My life and my death befall in your eyes. None can touch something unnamed und nicht ein leeres Zeichen. We do not add knowledge to this but only the trying. Like the builder of bridges, the same order of matters, spanning from point to point within the same silence,between dark and dark, leading April to May and in opposite directions, from one day to another till a thing appears where you await, lonely like a flower amid banks of stones. Will it bend to you? Words possibly strain not enough.The Word of the deserts falls apart. Gardens part in dusty lands if you do not come too close with some hope.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and these are the polished bones/of poets within my flesh
when all from one day makes no difference to you
the hour.
the fishing snakes
and only the calculations in the sleep
and not an empty sign
D door (dèlet)

 

II.

Et quae tanta fuit tibi causa amandi?
Neque amor causa fuit!

The sleepy rhyme of the dead hour. What is only set apart. The roots fed on ashes and that was a house is dust now. B The wood after the fire lies with little disturbance of some hope, in the heat. But the fire has its water as well. Hier also hältst du. The summer always contending for the eyes with winter. The sacrifice remains, a foundation, something which is given back to a new beginning, in some hints of ardour. Das Auge und der Mund sind leer. The matter oscillates in silence, cubes within the cubes under its polished surface, to carry the voice, without meaningful purposes. It has still to learn the regular intersection of words, the vibrating beats of lips, the effect of the mostly regular breathing, but it still has no need to do. Thus can’t the physics impinge on beauty. The stone blossoms out with the sonority of early spring, like a very small child at its outset, under the burden of time. For all that moves in time, shafts of sunlight in the clock-face. The fingers only count round figures, other echoes from the iron teeth and gears inside.The dust moves ahead, a while carelessly auf den Lippen. Its aim is too high to pursue. Time is itself unmoving, the cause and end of all, though we mostly do it through the eyes. Space is a desirable limitation of time. The metrics is in space. The stars go hunting eternity, extinguishing their heart in the travelling light. What burns before always ends in light. It is not to start again. It is to never come to an end. And we all go with them to an end, to the darkness of God buried under only three any terms.

here you are hidden then
the eye and the mouth are empty
on the lips
B house (bayit)