I.
A SONG OF BINDING
As the moon, anguish’d, circles the earth.
—The Book of Ahania
Chapter I, Verse 8
Her white ropes ensorcel tides, tricking land
to light. Cool sand will sift her tears, will weave
them—soft as petals—taut, into silk traps
for you only. Their long path, their slow sieve
gave tears the patience of stones. There’s no map
for you here. You’re not meant to find your way.
The bitten moon leads you—only—right here.
You hope you’re free to explore a white land,
to hide your meanings and be free to leave.
The cunning moon,sad but firm,casts bright straps
that bloom like soft lace. Your desire to play
is her desire—her plot to carve sharp gaps
through your weak will. White sands sparkles. Light wraps
you soft then pulls. You will stay, only, here.
II.
A SONG OF SURPRISE
…sudden sings the rock.
—The Book of Ahania
Chapter II, Verse 9
How did those rocks arise?
Knife out of water by rogue winds?
Or kissed, gently, into moonlight
to outline the limits of sin?
Whispers are mistaken for night’s
prophetic books. Meanings begin
to shape themselves out of cool light
into blue rocks, rising to winds.
Those rocks aren’t allowed to lie.
Stories take aim at precise ends—
unseen. Even the moon will miss
her escape. Blue curtains descend
sharp as rocks while actors resist
their play. Work lights rattle. They blend
white sand, blue rocks and holy mists
to absolve the sins of broken ends.
III.
A SONG OF LEARNING
,,,he wrote in silence
His book of iron.
—The Book of Ahania
Chapter III, Verse 9
Each page shows red—painted by sleepless rust.
They swallow words. Store them. Hide them from light.
A glass stylus writes lost letters. Dark dust
floats and air changes color—a lost flight
of failing robins held still by gusts
from no compass point. It’s as if last night
became a red tintype and all delights
had been stored away. You are left with just
some blank pages. Crimson. Salty with rust.
Ghosts of words slip off below lost light.
But that glass pen has a plan all its own—
lessons meant to pass down something like truth.
Someone’s cold hand moves it through this bone
chilled night, intending warmth. It desires youth
to find flesh, heat in red light (you can’t know
this. You are not allowed). Pen scratches. Owl hoots
echo on hard pages. Still words—new as shoots
in spring—will find some lost child, left alone.
The glass pen will hand them cold words to own.
Lessons passed palm to palm. Nothing like truth.
IV.
A SONG OF SONG
Slumber of abstraction.
—The Book of Ahania
Chapter IV, Verse 2
The beach is hard as a sounding board. Waves
ring cold chords. White notes spray past the tide line.
Blue rocks cast keyboard shadows. The night wants
subtle music but elements will play
with dread force of desires. No elegance
here—just a strict and perfect tune of time.
A power rules now. It will have its way.
Let a cold melody wind its work—bind
you to this now. There’s no lightning to taunt
this sea. On this beach, this light, you are prey
for what may be loosed. You are beyond chance
here—brave in a strict, perfect song of time.
V.
A SONG FOR DAYBREAK
…where bones from birth are buried
Before they see the light.
—The Book of Ahania
Chapter V, Verse 14
Now open your hands. Feel their white, cool reach.
Brush tangled hair away from weary eyes.
Let stars land on your palm. Release a sigh
for their imperfect light. Nothing here means
anything except light, rocks, sand, a beach
and—only—you, alone, left to unbind
your sorry soul from the miracle play—
here play is a game—The east will go gray
then pink. Walk away. Leave it behind.
This hard now is always less than it seems.
And the beach—a temple in cracked disguise.
Breathe it, suffer it, but don’t make it mean.
The tide that pulled back will be forced to rise
again. Secrets will hide under soft winds.
Sand will be white until this all begins
again. Other victims will learn to pray
while trembling. Hear morning sing through the rocks—
higher notes, not bound to fearful clocks.
Walk safe through white stars into glassy day.
*
Mark J. Mitchell has been a working poet for 50 years. He’s the author of five full-length collections, and six chapbooks. His latest collection is Something To Be from Pski’s Porch Publishing. A novel that includes some poetry, A Book of Lost Songs is due out next Spring. He’s fond of baseball, Louis Aragon, Dante, and his wife, activist Joan Juster. He lives in San Francisco where he points out pretty things.
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