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L I t T e R |
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Tilla Brading |
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Post Script |
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the language |
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talks to itself |
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revolving |
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an invisible circuit |
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spinning off |
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at the incestuous door |
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(not-what-you-speak |
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but-to-whom-you-speak) |
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whom you know |
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who knows |
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speaks volumes |
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accused |
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an insular tongue |
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the wrong mobile message |
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cross X over |
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iron X filigree |
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weld X together |
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frail X connections |
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between saliva |
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and the waxed ear |
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Life’s a fiction |
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dead in prose |
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editing memory |
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XXXX |
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The Book of Calm |
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lodged |
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between duodenum |
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and pancreas |
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among |
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the most difficult passages |
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on the coast |
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He had |
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the nicest vowels |
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she’d heard |
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I fly as high as a kite |
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Clouding the Shadow 3 |
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(work-over Daniele Serafini’s ELLOGIO DELL’OMBRA |
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trans. Harry Guest) |
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How can I grey over the white sky |
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IN PRAISE OF SHADOW? |
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where there where reach at its utmost the rolling |
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hills the landscape somewhere unfolds ethereal |
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and Ravenna lies laden—burden of the ugly |
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self orphan of salt past lies and wind plain |
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words the past lies plain across the |
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present but if past the lines of birch plain white lies |
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black over other life in undulations is shadowed |
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so draws versions comfort |
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for it’s the modest word to be looked for here |
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hovering not the bombastic pollutant phrase |
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storm-shadow where blankness gets denser and |
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pastoral becomes confused with lettering. |
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Copyright © Tilla Brading, 2005 |
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