W.F. Lantry
(Washington, DC, USA)
Be the Mirror of Life in the Eyes of the Dove
We walk the riverwood and celebrate
the beauty of this earth, the vibrant leaves,
birdsong whose unseen source is hidden by
a thousand fruits and flowers. We delight
in every aspect of the azure sky,
uniting all creative sight perceives:
the forms of clouds, the vigor of the wind.
But in our exaltation, we begin
to mirror all we see, wish to reframe
that beauty with our hands, and reinvent
those images that move us, and rewrite
the patterns of the wind, the slow ascent
of song or smoke, as if a hidden flame
warmed everything around us, and renewed
the hidden songs our ecstasies pursued,
the half-heard messages we understand
within our hearts and struggle to express
with our own words. Our voices reunite
both wind and leaf, and through them, we possess
reflections of that beauty and expand
the green boundaries of life we recreate.
—
Prayer To Aphrodite
I don’t know if you’re there or you can hear-
I’ve never even seen you, but I’ve heard
sometimes you answer, silently. Should I
invoke your distant, iridescent throne,
the small doves bearing you across the sky,
or simply whisper an uncommon word
to hint, discreetly, at my sudden need?
I have this small request: please intercede
with due consideration, delicate
and deft. No brazen trick will mend this case,
no pearl necklace, no florid cologne
could serve here, turn contingency to grace-
employ some stratagem that may befit
the situation, change strife to repose
and restore peace. Or help me now compose
some whispered incantation, some small prayer
invoking indications of your will,
and let your blessing be her steppingstone
back to the path of harmony. Instill
in her your spirit, and gently prepare
the phrase I’m meant to whisper in her ear.
—
Retraction
… and these are not the colors of the sun,
nor are these words intended. What the earth
brings to us, seems to be what the earth gave
a thousand times before. If what we knew
could halt this wind, then what we haven’t learned
would seem less valued. Now, considering
what’s half resigned within us, incarnate
in whispers, seems to mirror what we’ve lost,
or hope to lose. And yet, connections of
our making, half revealed as we turn
again to patterns of continual
silence within these open ports of stone
construct, within these margins, unconcealed
by any hint of certainty, a sign
illegible, but there: immutable
unread, but filled with other harmonies
envisioned from another, distant place
on this same earth, but half a world away…
—
Ti Bon Ange
(for Louis Duteau)
« Nobody knows you. But I sing of you… »
~ Lorca
Out of the leaves of cimorra, out of the thunder
out of the rain falling on a sea I’ve never known
out of the hurricane, ouragon and samedi
out of the pale sky and the slow whisperings of gathered voices,
instruments and dancers and half-remembered songs
poems like rivers flowing already from the open mouth
out of the memory of someone you never knew
chanting in a language you would never speak
Louis, beginning, already lost…
I cannot know what fires fed you then
nor if the ocean around you seemed a home
nor what the young women said of you before you turned
nor if you lingered in empty rooms while the rada vibrated
or in a cathedral obeying the romanized words
I cannot know if you followed then houngan or monsignor
or if the wind called you in another language
nor anything else of importance
But I do know that no hand was needed to sign a paper
at a crossroads a single glance is enough
or a simple word spoken over crystal
a waving of iron in the mountains
or a half-noticed suggestion in a still foreign tongue
and I know how it feels the first winter
the dark cold days on your skin and mine
and how the seasons begin to build without notice
how the daily nuanced words are unheard
how to work in silence in a landscape of closed ears
in a landscape of eyes unlit by a discernible fire
and I know the pages of your work, bound together
would displace less than the pages of the dead at Limbe,
less than the orders of Dutty, the treacherous contracts of Toussaint,
thinner than a single US marine quartermaster’s log
or the manifest of an Atlantic squarerigger
yet these are the pages we worked together
these the rivers we’ve translated
and our voices rode over the various waves
in a confluence of uncounted languages
how could we know the nature of the crossroads
the words you commanded for your rest
when we last poured gifts to the four corners of the world
but you knew, even then. And perhaps a single whisper
half-prayed to loa or saint passed your lips
in a language I might have understood
had I been listening
had I understood the fountain
understood the twin snakes and what they gave
had I known the woman at the river
the green of the early leaves of cimorra
the black of our lengthening shadows
or the red of eroded earth
but now, out of the unconstrained river of your song
out of the wind and the small dust
out of the birth of another unknown to me
out of all I’ve known and lost, and all you cannot lose
out of the languages we could almost share
out of all we could not
Louis, I have made for you this song.
____________________________________________
About the Poet
W.F. Lantry, native of San Diego, received his Maîtrise from L’Université de Nice, and PhD in Creative Writing from University of Houston. His poetry collections are The Structure of Desire (Little Red Tree 2012), winner of a 2013 Nautilus Award in Poetry, The Language of Birds (Finishing Line 2011), a retelling of Attar’s Conference of the Birds, and a forthcoming collection The Book of Maps. Recent honors include the Hackney Literary Award in Poetry, Lindberg Foundation International Poetry for Peace Prize (in Israel), and Potomac Review Prize. His work appears in Atlanta Review, Asian Cha and Aesthetica. He currently works in Washington, DC and is an associate fiction editor at JMWW.