Topic: Uttering Her Name

[Firestarter]

This is my favorite one.

Dar Óma
I could cut myself off
from the world of men
but not of crows
I cannot recall a time
not being of the crow nation

the way they fly alone
and assemble
their silence
 a disused well

in the distance
near at hand –
that’s me
the one that’s left behind

brazen in the morning
they rule evening time
painting their shadows on roofs

they hide
practise ventriloquism
expose tail feathers
say <here I am>

I try not to eavesdrop
on their intimate conversations
but am drawn in

Crow -  You see -
battle cry, lullaby, lament,
subtleties of grammar, nuance,
Crow is my first language


GR

[nichi]

great crow-pic!

[nichi]

Dar Óma
after years of rigorous training
going from one master to another
breathing exercises
careful regulation of diet
avoiding loose women and strong liquor
I have finally qualified
as a basso profondo for You

last night was my debut
I sang the Dar Óma Lieder
like a deranged nightingale

 the audience showered me with flowers
I threw them back
<silence!> I bellowed, profoundly
(I could feel You in the hush)
<these flowers are for Her! for Her!
She who has crafted my voice

grab your staffs! your blackthorn sticks!
take your bouquets and posies
on pilgrimage to Her
place rose garlands around Her neck
and at Her feet
She is the source of your delirium
She it is that sings through me
wildly, melodiously,
the song of the seal in its lair
when tides are full>


GR

[Nichi]

Dar Óma
on first hearing its name
I wanted its shock
had I found an electric eel
I would have kept it close to me
jolted into awareness
whenever vagueness or revery set it

at the end of my fiftieth year
You appeared like an eel, a naga
from the depths

I bristle like a furry animal
sure of its doom
never so alive
as in the force of Your current
that moves and twists in me constantly
cell to delighted cell


~GR
Uttering Her Name

[Nichi]

Dar Óma
I create silences
wherever I go
in silence You come to me
I close my eyes and ears
to worlds
my lips

if people ask for directions
I point to the gibbous moon
when asked how I am
I smile the cusp of an eclipse

should someone ask the time
they'll see in my eyes
it is Dar Óma time
to pray
and to praise

all of creation
is getting in the mood
insects flit silently
movement
but no rustle from trees
I cannot hear my heartbeat

in a distant land
You move noiselessly

sunlight briefly strokes the haggard face of a mountain
a hare cocks his ears
You listen


GR

[Nichi]

Dar Óma
yesterday
I went looking
for You
and found You
everywhere
particularly
in the flight of swallows
innumerable
in the darkening air

it seemed they wished
to fan the dying sun
to flame


GR

[Nichi]

Dar Óma
I became a goatherd for You
searching for our lost goats
where can they be?
sometimes I think I see them
they turn out to be lichen-flecked rocks
men have been singing
such desperate songs for centuries

my herding is an old art
partly forgotten

I can no longer do it alone

You must come

let’s pool our skills
listen and watch
I say,
what You hear is a curlew>

later You exclaim

You run ahead
the sun, low on the horizon,
strains to caress Your ankles
one last time –
am I chasing goats?

we rejoice
when we find the herd
we milk the white nanny together
in bonfire light
swapping teats playfully
milk in the bucket
splashes of whitish laughter


GR

[Nichi]

Dar Óma
not the slaked thirst
of Bayazid
but the prayer of the Prophet
eternally on my lips:
more thirst

like a dog
my tongue hangs out

asleep or awake
how could it be different

I lick Your dew
from grass

howling
I create thunder storms

the air fills
with Your rain

long after it has ceased
trees drip
Your sound

I hear it
even when not listening

seeping
deeper than roots


GR

[Nichi]

Not from the Uttering Her Name volume...

Spring With a Thousand Clichés

Spring with a thousand clichés has arrived
Hafiz puts each one to work as though never employed before

Those swallows, for instance, he is their loopy flight
(Though ostensibly holding up a corner, eyes half closed)

Peach blossoms? He has taken on their scent
Oozing, literally, from every pore

All this without willing it to be so

Spring with a thousand clichés has arrived
And Hafiz, friskier than a kid goat, dozes outside a half-door

Lengthening days; he stretches his feet
Light trickles into the world. More more!

Somebody gives him a well-aimed kick. 'Drunken useless poet!'
The heart of Hafiz bursts open, a rose

Without willing it to be so

Until there is no cliché left. Not a sight. Not a sound.
No doves moan

A breeze from the desert comes suddenly to a halt
Recognising home

A stork tidies her nest. Could that be -? Is that
Hafiz again, helping out with her annual chore?

All this, all this without willing it to be so

~Gabriel Rosenstock

[Nichi]

Not from "Uttering..."

I OPEN MY POEM


I open my poem to bright things
here come oranges, dandelions,
come in
take a seat
I’ll be right with you

into my poem
comes a lovely cuckoo snow in its beak
welcome

what’s this?
oceans of sunshine

I open my poem to all that is
that will be that was
that could be
bad move

here comes
an old cat
a pigeon’s leg in its mouth
(shit happens)
sit yourself down
mind the cuckoo
it’s got snow in its mouth

make room for yourself
between
the oranges and the dandelions
where are you from your catself?
where’s the rest of the pigeon?

I open my poem to all the elements
alive and dead and
some ivy comes in trailing
its own wall
the wall falls on the cat
this poem is a tragedy
of sorts

somewhere in the world
a wall is falling on a cat
on a child

I open my poem again to bright things
but there’s nothing left



2006, Gabriel Rosenstock
From: Rosenstock – selected poems

[Nichi]

(From Uttering)


Dar Óma
I come knocking at Your door
and say I’m here to check the –

mutter something

You let me in

will you be long? You ask

an eternity
I mumble under my breath
and begin probing walls
with a stethoscope

Your eyes grow large
what exactly do you think you’re doing
You enquire, melodiously,
in a voice that will never die

I sigh something about trapped voices
in walls
prayers in the middle of the night
songs that nobody sings any more

I can hear something, I say,
a macaw, possibly,
but You are already on the phone

the police aren’t all that bad
they allow me listen to prison walls
and grin when I recite aloud
    the lost sonnets of the damned

~G.R.