from “The Poet’s House”
But when night descends, the poet’s house
is illumined by a borrowed moon, by floodlight
from the castle. Inside, nothing is illumined.
Remove its shell and it would stand, a mecca,
kabbah, for the soul to circle, but not
with the eye, the ear, a groping hand
or tentative step, only with the passage
of the whole body, being, the self’s dissolve,
for without dissolve, there is no emergence.
Were it in my gift, Robert, I’d ask you to stay.
Come and sit here with me on the old stone wall,
half wall, half rubble. Let the sun beat down
with the sound of running water way down
below in the gulley and a visible breeze
blowing the oat grass, the very thought of breeze,
to cool us. We should have sat by the pool but no,
here we are, ringed with the sound of cicadas
in a central well of silence. Insects hum,
nose-dive past, leaving a nervousness behind them.
Come, let’s brave the door. Or at least its shade.
© Mimi Khalvati 2010