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Tilla Brading


Post Script


the language

talks to itself

revolving

an invisible circuit

spinning off

at the incestuous door


(not-what-you-speak

but-to-whom-you-speak)

whom you know

who knows

speaks volumes


accused

an insular tongue

the wrong mobile message

cross X over

iron  X filigree

weld X together

frail  X connections

between saliva

and the waxed ear

Life’s a fiction

dead in prose

editing memory

XXXX


The Book of Calm

lodged

between duodenum

and pancreas

among

the most difficult passages

on the coast


He had

the nicest vowels

she’d heard


I fly as high as a kite







Clouding the Shadow 3


(work-over Daniele Serafini’s ELLOGIO DELL’OMBRA

trans. Harry Guest)


How can I grey over the white sky

IN PRAISE OF SHADOW?

where there where reach at its utmost the rolling

hills the landscape somewhere unfolds ethereal

and Ravenna lies laden—burden of the ugly

self orphan of salt past lies and wind plain

words the past lies plain across the

present but if past the lines of birch plain white lies

black over other life in undulations is shadowed

so draws versions comfort

for it’s the modest word to be looked for here

hovering not the bombastic pollutant phrase

storm-shadow where blankness gets denser and

pastoral becomes confused with lettering.













Copyright © Tilla Brading, 2005