Meditation on the Between
My ascension will be less certain
perhaps into arms, your arms
For myself, there is but one voice
and your voice in the wind
This old notion, though in fact
I am somewhat of an antique poet
A minor muse, whose distinction
is her own restless bewilderment
An allusion can serve no purpose
here id you will not accept it
Must I wait for Lorca to show me
the common ground
"La luna gira en el cielo sobre las tierras
sin agua mientras al verno siembra
rumores de tigre y llama"
There is for all an open designation
of form and color, bands of light
I am not the heat of fresh canvas
I am not the smear of alizarin crimson
There is no stop start stop in a poem
if there is no intended rhythm
Why have there been martyrs for so long,
is it not a sin against god?
Poetry looks to love and love back
and never a word among them understood
But, but no one, but never, but nothing
the poem is this and I am this
Who in tomorrow's eyes in not fiction
whoe then even begins to stand alone
I am no one if the question need be asked
and through no one am I free
Love is this for me if you wish to know
and the poem is some of that
"Cuando Illegabo la noche, noche que noche
nochers," even if only in words
On them I am built, love is built, and they
of themselves devour, each breath
There is no stillness in these, meditation
consumes time like patience
I am not waiting for your reply, but waiting,
perhaps ther is some truth in it
("nieve ondulada reposa")
It is for you and I, the between; of woman and man,
of forward and forward still
Certainly it is the silence between the lines
of which I have not spoken
A circular ascension, for your voice and your eyes
Hao Nguyen