Ehnahre

Extreme New Music Collaborative

Douve


I. I Saw You

(I could see you run on terraces,

I could see you struggle against the wind,

The cold was bleeding on your lips.


And I saw you break and rejoice at being dead,

     O more beautiful

Than the lightning when it stains the) white windows (with

     your blood.)



II. Rather the Ivy


III. At Last Absent From My Head

In question was a wind stronger than our memories

Stupor of dresses and cry of rocks- and you were passing in

     front of these flames,

Head graphpapered, hand split open, wholly

Seeking death on the exultant drums of your gestures.


It was day of your breasts

And you were reigning at last absent from my head.



IV. Great Dogs of Leafage Tremble

     I awaken, it rains.  The wind pierces you, Douve, resinous

heath sleeping near me.  I am on a terrace, in a pit of death.

Great dogs of leafage tremble.


     The arm you lift, suddenly, on a door, lights me across the

ages.  Village of embers, each instant I see you being born,

Douve,


     Each instant dying.



V. Black Gestures

The arm that is lifted and the arm that is turned

Are simultaneous only for our dull heads,

But these sheets of greenness and mud thrown back,

Nothing remains except a fire in death’s kingdom.


The dismantled leg pierced by the strong wind

Driving heads of rain before it

Will light you only to the threshold of this kingdom,

Gestures of Douve, gestures already slower, black gestures.



VI. Trees of Another Shore



VII. Wounded One Blurred Among the Leaves

Wounded one blurred among the leaves,

But caught by the blood of fading paths,

Accomplice yet of life.


I have seen you, beached at your struggle’s end,

Falter at the edge of the silence and the water,

And mouth sullied by the last stars

Break off with a cry the horrible nightwatch.


(O raising in air suddenly hard as rock

A beautiful gesture of coal.)



VIII. The Tearing Out of the Sight

     The absurd music starts in the hands, in the knees, then

there is the cracking of the head, the music swells under the

lips, its certainty gets to the underslope of the face.


     Now the woodwork of the face is taken apart. Now begins

the tearing out of the sight.



IX. Ceiling of Insects

White under a ceiling of insects, poorly lit, in profile,

Your dress stained by the venom of lamps,

I find you stretched out,

Your mouth higher than a river breaking far away on the

     earth.


Broken being whom the invincible being puts back together,

Presence possessed again in the torch of cold,

O watcher always I find you dead

Douve saying Phoenix I am watching in this cold.



X.  The Black Princes/Fountain of My Death



XI. The Black Tread of the Earth

     I see Douve stretched out. In the scarlet city of air, where

branches are battling across her face, where roots find their

way into her body- she radiates a joy strident with insects,

a frightful music.


     To the black tread of the earth, Douve, ravaged and exult-

ant, returns to the gnarled lamp of the plateaus.



XII. The Interior Sea

Your face tonight lighted by the earth,

But I see your eyes’ corruption

And the word makes no sense any more.


The interior sea lighted by turning eagles,

This is an image.

I hold you cold at a depth where images do not take any more.



XIII. The Door Opens



XIV. I See You Disappearing

O gifted with a profile in which the earth is raging

I see you disappearing.


On your lips bare grass and flintsparks

Invent your last smile,


Deep knowledge in which the ancient

Bestiary of the mind burns to ashes.



XV. March of Suns

     Home of a dark fire where our slopes converge!   Under its

vaults I see you glimmering, motionless Douve, caught in the

vertical net of death.


     Masterful Douve, thrown down; to the march of suns

through funeral space, she accedes slowly to the lower levels.



XVI. The Throat Paints Itself

The ravine enters the mouth now,

The five fingers disperse in casual woods now,

The original head flows among the grasses now,

The throat paints itself with snow and wolves now,

The eyes blow on which of death’s passengers and it is we in

     this wind in this water, in this cold now.



XVII. The Mute Limits

Exact presence, whom no flame again could restrain; bearer

of secret coldness; living, by that blood which revives and

grows where the poem is destroyed,


     It was necessary for you to appear, this at the mute limits,

And to undergo the ordeal of this land of death where your

light increases.


     O most beautiful, and death in your laughter!  I dare now

 to meet you, I can face your gestures’ flashing.



XVIII. Attempted Rift in the Thickness of the World