Be it a persona, let it be.
It is but an empty shell that carries
A Mission. Let it Be.
It will need to move about, it does.
But within there is something resembling
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Bhagawhandi P. was an Indian girl
whose brain a malignant tumour’d swirl.
Admitted to hospice in seventy-eight
the time-bomb ticking ‘it’s getting late’.
At nineteen she’d lived her life to the full
cheerful resisting (a bright girl) the pull
of seizures becoming more frequent and stranger
a dreamy state, to her not a danger.
Going from vague to concrete visions,
a passage to India and an admission
free from them both, medication and rain,
back to her loved ones and fields so plain.
She does not believe in time as decaying,
dances down sweet hills, forever surveying,
as nurses their hands on her forehead place,
how nature her moves in mysterious ways.
It’s no dream-madness but phantasms, all
clear memories turning of spring and of fall.
Not charged with passion or driving her mad
but paintings, tone poems, happy and sad.
As if in a trance, eyes open, unseeing,
her faint, mysterious smile not fleeing.
Just once Sacks asked his Bhagawhandi
‘What is happening please can you not tell me?’
‘I am dying, dear Doctor’ the answer came
‘Or call it returning, it is all the same’.
Another week and she did not respond
to external stimuli or to the fond
remarks from staff, and then she died
or as they called it, ‘at last arrived’.
They wonder now and one asked a friend
‘Does dying mean being born again?’
I provide no answer, just a feeling detect
that I neither wish to indulge nor reject.
Instead I tell you now I am done with this ballad
and will go down to compose me a salad.
Like an albatross I fly
iImitating his movements,
refusing to lay eggs
on snow or ice.
I will lay my eggs
where ashes lay thickly
amongst lush growths
on rocks at low tide.
And still they will be hit
by the Antarctic air
and ritualised threats, or else
under that of a volcano, in fear
of being boiled alive, they will
just like the golden lizard
sneak to rescue at the risk
of scorching feet
just like us trying to beat
the waves and build
the best nest.
And black lava moves
like classical music
and high volcano peaks
force clouds to drop
rain to fertilise ashes.
And as iguanas are brought
the rare chance of a drink
we are provided with fires,
the fires that give life.
And as small fish clean big
penguins stand like gravestones
overlooking cold seas
and a reptile dies on hot rocks
to keep a young bird alive.
No body can strap body parts together as he can.
He is a reward-drawer who believes in smart-trams
and draws you spam-maps.
He fools you into straw-eating warts and when you scream
for more he is the one who brings you plate after plate of more
erecting with his left hand columns, castles.
He knits and stinks and peels sleep off you
when you need it the most. A pubic hair falls
off his finger and starts its fight with feathers.
He is a redivider, a petrifier and he speaks backwards.
But maybe one day we will see through and sum up:
The devil lived in a doomed mood
That we can do without. We fooled him
with sensuousnes(s) or stayed forever quiet.
Anger? ’tis safe never. Bar it! Use love
(or: Evoles ut ira breve nefas sit; regna
Which means more or less the same).
under the surface listening
to compact water-silence
in the wake of a boat
up on a shore.
He wouldn’t have put it that way
it was put there for him:
49 Doors all made
for a persons particular shape
at the moment of death.
His head is the dot
of a questionmark,
a nest of dry grass
in the middle of wet souls
– a cage of glimmering light –
metallic shapes blow by,
a soft voice, rusty velvet.
Flowers standing along
roads: hot, steamy heatwaves and
dead animals (big dogs)
is what he sees
wherever he turns
once, twice, …
he cannot even remember
but crisp suits
and apricots with scars.
Now removed foreskins
hide under oaktrees
and smile with leaves
left in dirt, and men sit
behind stones, facing nothing.
was it, he thinks,
that I was running to go?