[BNP/E3, 31A – 30]

51

The Mad Fiddler

A Sensationist Poem

Her fingers toyed absently with her rings

There are fallen angels in the way you look

And great bridges over silent streams in your smile. 

Your gestures are a lonely princess dreaming over a book

At a window over a lake, on some distant isle.

If I were to stretch my hand and touch yours that would be

Dawn behind the turrets of a city in some East.

The words hidden in my gesture would be moonlight on the sea

Of your being something in my soul-like gaiety in a feast.

Let your silence tell me of the numberless dreams that are you,

Let the drooping of your eyelids prolong landscapes far away.

X I ask no more than that you should come into my dreams and be true

To the wider seas within me and my inner eternal day.

The jets of water return on the listening of being untrue,

And this is the flower I pluck, with a sound, from what you unsay.

Blossoms, blossoms, blossoms along the road of your going to speak.

Eighteenth century gardens, so sad in the middle of our dreaming them now,

Are the way you are conscious of yourself on your eyelids, by your lips, through your cheek.

X O the road to Nowhere all for us and we there and a new God this to allow!

Do not scatter[1] the silence that is the palace where our consciousness

Is living at seeing gardens our duplicate lives of one soul.

What are we, in our dream of each other, but a picture which is

The masterpiece of a painter that never painted at all?

                          Fernando Pessoa

A sick child sees the rain fall[2] through the window of what you allow.

 
[1] scatter /footstep\
[2] fall /blur\