Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Johanna Fischer


a song augmented at moments
by the raw sea wind that whips
upon the waves bringing with it
murmuring voices from the deep
we shed small words here that break into each other

you are like an unfolding poem
i never cease to be amazed
how many times i unravel another you here by the shore of eternity
like the music brought to us  
expressed in textures-contrapuntal screeches
from the seagulls that glide above us
reflected in dappled hints of light on the waters

you carry words in your hands
the shape of our discourse
moves through the spaces of our history
passionately patterned by the spirit that  uncoils in us
and fills the wide chasm of desire
to create

this abendlied crawls slowly from my mouth, my heart
zu stromt und ruht (to flow and rest)
upon the drams of sand that cover the shore of your soul
we like the moaning sea gulls seek this evening refuge
a place to sing of things to come
to shape another eternalized moment
from erratic flights of wanting

we face a mystery here tonight
the moon slides ever slowly westward
we are intimate with the substances of sand and sea
and the dream world beckons…


canticle to march

some breath of frost still lingers, hangs
in skies that curl its grey lips inward
and one lone purple crocus is compelled
to struggle  against a raw breeze
that holds real metamorphosis at bay
if only just a while longer
the soul-begs to return to some light (new)
the memory in hollows of  mind’s ruin(s)
we are surely stained in our ascent to illumination
but the possibility of letting this pain go somewhere
urges us on
fields of language stretched out long before us
ancient and inadequate
haunting and mesmerizing like Albinoni’s dirge
broken until vox dei
restores that which was long frozen- silenced,
sealed in the cold bleakness of winter-
the shaping of language is painful
and yet i must repair the rift between mind and voice
even if only upon this page
release like the coming spring flower that
pulsates beneath the still frozen field
the choraling  be-coming of the poem


Er hat seiner Traum erzählt

The notes drip their lament
into the voice of instruments
clashing-music anchored in the
anguish of its own moment

we are blackened by these indefatigable
moments of music making
witnesses to how love fell violently
from our hearts

this music is everything and nothing
piercing and insignificant
present and hollowed
the nemesis of all creating demands such chaos

he folds the notes into the ongoing
permanence that is motion
we follow his music into the sinking
abyss of its nearness

into the bleak places where we
know that pain is wintered over at last
where silence can open into redemption
if only we could remember the music of love

                        I say to you
                        one must have chaos
                        to give birth to a
                        dancing star.
                                        Nietzsche, Also Sprach Zarathustra


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