A Rant While Waiting for the Sun
Tim Hazell
Black halo rounds the head, small fires going out,
small fires, electric blue flames.
Trees dissolve and seeds burst.
A volcano has erupted, filling the air with ash.
Clouds roll dark and liquid above.
This is very distant, but now we have our winter snow.
Flurries chill the buds,
a gentle descent, winter of hands.
Their volumes stroke the green leaves,
stems and red berries of the chile plants,
red berries that incinerate my stews.
I look up at the aquatic world, and breathe underwater.
You and I are suspended
between the angels and terra firma.
We make believe we can fly, perform miracles,
stepping over high olive sierras
like smiles on stilts - anything is possible.
This is a white magic time.
Forget the sodden priests.
Forget the machines.
Cease to cry out and pound or creation itself will stop.
Hell is descending, or rather jubilation is ascending.
This is what afterlife really means, flutes and bells.
A mongol gunpowder assault.
As the thickening twilight gathers, myths and motifs elude gravity.
Fire and earth are conceived.
Reason demands that air and water provide the counterpoint.
A fundamental harmonic interval occurs.
Sky mechanics articulate.
Mind and body electric operate in dynamic tension.
A fat resplendent merchant appears,
master of disguise and espionage - the Aztec Potchteca,
consummate trader in elite goods.
His skin glistens and his chocolate eyes blaze.
This earthy prince will not let us perish, nor sleep as the spirits erupt,
or wander about as lost gluttons, sated with his material goods and food.
All the fireworks ignite and throb.
All the churches ring at once as if manipulated by one man.
Birds can still rest in the laurel trees in the town square
because they are innocent, primaeval things.
We must remain awake. Crowds throng the stairs.
Rooftops, balconies and terraces are jammed.
In another time drums would have hammered,
flutes would have wailed all day and night.
Now we compromise and hang from poles,
or watch the homemade towers destroy themselves in stages.
Priests still course the warren of tunnels beneath the streets,
or rise to bloom in dank cellars like stubborn black flowers.
The air is thick as thunder looms again.
We put on more layers of clothes or drape ourselves
in makeshift raincoats of plastic bags.
We wear the crisscross tracks of failure and success,
bearing the weight of our miracle making
as half-finished bridges between here and heaven.
This is an end and a beginning,
the implacable ritual of our coming of age.
You switch off and navigate by instinct.
Sister wood and metal sweats.
We are excited, unfettered again like young dogs
loose in a thicket of brambles and mesquite.
We push on into the labyrinth pricked by falling fire, a rain of needles,
to try to achieve something out of the ordinary.
Our volcano’s children hover in the air, carelessly dressed,
pure of heart, in landscapes of desolation.
Try to achieve something out of the ordinary.
Push on into the labyrinth!
The wind grips my throat with hands of leather.
It flings rain upon the pecan and pomegranate trees
in front of it like a diviner.
They bow their heads and drop their buds.
Our decapitated gardens will bear a strange harvest
of chilies - too red, unwholesome and soft.
If the days of thunder persist,
this year’s caterpillars will not become butterflies.
There will be nothing to incinerate my stews.
Dust from distant volcanoes scents our house.
We dance in the only patch of golden light, waiting for the sun.
It has come to a full stop.