Mest lästa ▸
Amy Lowell
Before me lies a mass of shapeless days,
Unseparated atoms, and I must
Sort them apart and live them. Sifted dust
Covers the formless heap. Reprieves, delays,
There are none, ever. As a monk who prays
The sliding beads asunder, so I thrust
Each tasteless particle aside, and just
Begin again the task which never stays.
And I have known a glory of great suns,
When days flashed by, pulsing with joy and fire!
Drunk bubbled wine in goblets of desire,
And felt the whipped blood laughing as it runs!
Spilt is that liquor, my too hasty hand
Threw down the cup, and did not understand.
Hundreds of ladybugs huddle together
in clumps in the corners where wall
& ceiling meet. I point the black tube
like a magic wand, a reverse rifle,
& the beetles disappear with the briefest of rattles
down the vacuum’s plastic throat.
This is nothing like hunting, no meditative wait,
no tense silence or rush of adrenaline.
Snuffing out these house invaders, I feel nothing.
I am alone with the sound of the cleaner,
which cancels out every competing thought.
If there were sound in space, a star
would howl like this when it collapsed into itself:
detritus from the ceiling, meet the detritus from the floor.
Bright clot of color, flame,
here’s a sackful of dust in which to gutter.
business comes expressed
as opportunity
so that the sum is
no more than the sun dressed
in field dust
laid by a little rain
white deer
the park is troublesome
with the dust of war
little to whistle about
in her winter linen
like a cold surgeon curing us
of all unnecessary dust and ease
past all fear
we come to a labyrinth
nothing in it
but accidents like dust
falling down over all
the land in pieces
without any other design
but love
I dress myself against the sun
go to listen to the gale
I publish lies but hope to be
just a little conceited
I dress myself for the dust
that great garden of a bed
Like a speechless opera
or dust in ladies’ hair,
the hiss of the sea.
this great dust is made
in the country
there is no cheaper
to fill up the house and urn
with I know not yet
what sleep
early to chapel
the dust is as poor
as a new continent
spiderlings before we were dust
how we crawled
while you watched the sunset
i watched darkness climb the trees
though the sky never
really gets dark any more
i began growing a hump
as a form of protest
and now it looms invisibly
over my every croak and cry
i call it O for Oblivion
as well as the Obvious
what i thought were spiderlings
was the detritus of their eggs
in the right light
anything can look promising
A forest .
A dammed forest .
A concrete forest .
All that enters shall decay .
All shall slowly lose purpose and succomb to the inevitable decay .
Decaying flesh .
Withering bones .
Only dust remains .
Wind takes the dust away . A forest .
A dammed forest .
A concrete forest .
All that enter shall decay .
And no longer remain .
.End.