Elegy
i: public notice He did not commit A crime. Crimes are Wrong and unfortunate— Perverse, Always detectable. He merely knew— And now you know. Sine mora. ii: in the doldrums One could very well have claimed that It was raining that day The world was at ease. Atlas like any other day. The dog poet sat quietly by the window, The season sullied; the clouds Tea was brought to his fingertip. towering over men and women like walls over His pen dreamless, made a draught for the day smaller streets. Yet in the end spoke naught. A quick flirt of The weather forecast had Jots and trails brought nothing for the mind failed again, and in protest, To eschew the fatality that may later come. the umbrellas refused to turn. Any narrator from a safe distance would agree The city was a huge web That he was merely a spectator of sports: of hands—skeletal, Of the smash of rain music, occasionally standing Of the velocity of wet vehicles— on false roots. The papers slogged on tar and And at times, of the somewhat aggravated stare wiped the corners clean. From the passersby, for his remote idleness. Against the wind Ai! things were still in a slewth of slowness, they would twist and sleep And the world was still a palatable place. like snakes softly curled. iii: jade moon caprice The moon was green. His torso Divided by the light The steeple of storm. His ghost face was the quickest dance— Held high—he was the giant father hulk, the hypnotic feast commenced! An emerald height over his youngs. Dissolved midst the night was the deepest trance— His limbs waspy with cries, stalked on bushes the beast wildly pranced! And brushed through trees. His streets racked With back pain in the wind; the hollow alleys It was a wave of revolution; Shook in fear. a tide of population. Go on and march! Together they were lunar god and minions— Go on and march! A thousand happy faces, an army of expressions That kissed the pavement and died. The panes The wingless child Wrote violent songs for their march. cavorted and cried; fallen to the frenetic tune. And as they remade from the ash lock The gale of limbs Their voices vehement. The yaps shrilled rejoiced up high—a tribute And stripped of their past; the white bark to the musical moon. Burnt in water. Go on and march! Brutal night! a boil of mind! It was Go on and march! A riot of elements—a world on headstand: Go on and march The earth thrown high with rain in the air; in the month of April; And the hearts fell through in fire. march to the frenetic tune! iv: the scrying eye Cold under the sun An impending cloud took flight; A crow of murder. v: Atlas He was in the room; the old man in the next The day was hot His neighbour, that old bag, an aged pocket of goldfish blown heat. Memory that used to pour from that dark chair: One white-gutted tank. Wet lips, salty eyes; but had since ran dry. Sunny-side up— Just as he had since ran mad: a fanatic of the leaves slept over gummy Hearts, a fiend of doggish bawl; a madman roads belly turned. Burning innards on his daily bake of mind. One could still smell His ironed out arms, a rape of eye. the tempest of past: the multicoloured scent galore and This was dog poet Atlas affected by the moon. the dog with a broken nose Green lights have that effect, as do the red; stirred the market of And likewise illness to violence, the web of buildings; nobody Hands that clutched had placed a bitter spell. heard. Chi dara fine al gran dolore?— Men and women drowned Two rooms; twins on display, the freakish red 'neath their own brows. With the blackened green. His throat consumed Shirts browsed with sweat. As his neighbour stilled; a terrible tryst. Some nearby ice shop used to serve tea in the 'Til one day it happened: one dry Thursday afternoon, but not anymore. His fear etched like nether flame And torn the rooms in rage. His old neighbour The sun, sudden and cruel, Did not escape—but instead, slept. agitated those without shelter. And ever since the auburn sun had set afire One could use a lullaby As his ailing soul alight— on days like this; He had killed another, on one awful April day, the opened eyes And no rain would quench his sin. could not sleep. vi: a fortiori The boulevard burnt of coconut trees—sunset afoot And the world ablaze, casting smoke-lines Over black tar. His personal smudge on the ground Did not stay to watch, but walked Coerced—walked home (Dragged along with him his long hair To that apartment on the third floor). When the door opened, gravity revived. He threw his bags and clothes in heaps On the floor. Exhausted, he was— But not quite a weakling. Not strong either. He was That which stood halfway, The white between the black and grey, so To speak— And a shadow he had been, that which gasped Between cups of tea through solemn nights; Between broken chairs; between Sleepless morning pink curtains; Between Tchaikovsky; between keyboards, screens, And lost watches—the hours brittle. He remained predictable, A man of untimely schedule. He used to own mirrors, and Gazed into them, blinked As if the act in itself a must. Until His dark-eye circles would dilute Into another dream And sleep—washed away. Then stopped Altogether, one afternoon (perhaps Even earlier), without warning, No sirens. He gave up Playing self-deceit. A transformation Came about, with each step He was reduced—belittled until his days became A checklist of ephemera. To do, and to delay, then at last To shove back into the folders and Become one of the never-bes. Chi dara fine al gran dolore? L'ore—but before that, there were Other matters of importance, such as the clairvoyance That came last week. As he stared, disturbed And yet undisturbed, deeply into a puddle Crumpled by his soles, a watery forest unravelled Itself. Shyly at first, disguised by the shimmering veil, then As it came to the impetuous realisation of his attention, The febrile beauty intruded his eyes— And he bled tears. Perhaps it was then he hated; Perhaps it was then he loved; Or perhaps—both— But whichever hue that had mesmerised His mirage, it was Unmistakably that of his own.
Dale Chou 2005-04-15