The blank field is a whitewashed wall
between
eyes and incipient thought.
A neatly printed line
emerges out of nothing,
fingers sleep
as they plant words in inky rows.
Meaning searches for meaning,
each symbol is a cracked seed
shed from a blacked-out window -
brain particles blindly seeking.
There is meaning here,
but it is as yet formless,
what is seen is slough and spillage,
mind-molt
struggling into an appearance
of notion and idea.
Now the word is flesh, a glossolalia,
a mute speaking in tongues, yet
breathless of any spirit.
At once the painted parody of self
is free to wriggle forth,
to sew and bind together
discernable images,
it must surface above the silent page,
lift up the emblematic
as the hammer-arm
of the insubstantial, until deciphered
by other necromancers
who then speak
for the dead-voiced word.
This then is the tipping point:
the space between sight and seen,
a place to speak into existence
the once immaterial
or surrender all coherence
to the un-lettered reticence of God.
Flowering cashew tree
with atavic aromas
as rejuvenated souls
atoms that orbiting in brightness
carrying spectra to pleasure
when savoring the sweet and sour fruit
does imitating Babel glossolalia
at the distant desires parties
in airs prone to pleasure
like that Nirvana on earth
passions detached from ideas
multicolored sweet thoughts
invoking all eternity
in the primeval juices of the dawns
fruit and flower recruited from euphoria
to make this so bitter life
a delicious and juicy cashew
in the spontaneity of a mouthful of cachaça ...
For you I knew the cold,
in return I offered you
my tropicalism ...
You made me practice glossolalia,
for you i extinguish my smile ...
for loving you i canceled
all poets, and
I became a crazy poet ...
All poems that I made for you,
you banished them to trash ...
I gave myself another way,
I got dressed in another body
for you I became a specter ... I went
Faust and Machiavellian,
my spirit went down to
underworld ... I entered you
to avenge myself ... but only
I found the dark inside ...
Finally I came back to reality
emptied of love, hirsute
and with naked soul ...
I deleted the world to
find you and died for you
being still alive ...
TO MY BLOOD
The very lone lodge visited I
Since between us an inevitable nap
In endless rows the route to sky
Seated my blood long ahead now
Thus butterfly beyond my cecity
And there was I deadly alive
Windmill by wind their glossolalia
In reverberant, whispered to my ears
Till my file be close our sight
When it drip no more of hourglass
And the orb to ants but a mat
By seven hundred years of our stand.
© Yusuf, A.O.
Once in lifetime i stopped a little
and so I did ... I consulted
hours of life and saw that
the legs of the time clock
had been astray for
distances ...
It was night mouth and night
now she had lost that
reddish hue, it was already
invisibly dark
I screamed and I did not hear an echo ...
Knowing that fish
they sleep in the bed of the rivers,
I leaned against the slope
of the hill, at the foot of the mountain
and I began to speak in glossolalia,
or xenoglossia ... I'm not sure ...
I just remembered that I have
the key of time, and so
He cannot catch me ...
Then I fell asleep ...!
ENSLAVE US AGAIN!!!
''''''''''''''''''''''""""""""""""""
How slavery unites men-
how chains made us friends.
How the Glossolalia of that tribe-
was learnt by this tribe.
How we shared the same breath-
and the same bugs in our beds.
How the ships that bore us-
listened to the chorus-
of our sorrows in brotherhood
as we shared the same wound.
How the ship sank-
with some of our brothers-
and how in our tears' tank
sink our eyes accross the borders.
We were tied together-
our hearts made stronger,
was it the chain that united us?
oh white men! come and enslave us.
For the freedom that should unite-
is now the god-father of seperation,
If in bondage we were tied-
we would, together, come.
Once upon a time-
slavery united us,
where now is our family ties?
broken by the sword of freedom.
Oh mother! you were right
and grandmother was truthful,
foes are made friend in the eyes
of calamities and troubles.
Let that chain be back-
to tie together the seperated hands,
and to close the crack-
and the borders estraging the three tribes.
©®Ibrahim Clouds(SWC)
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