Alan Loney

Nowhere to go

I recognize that I love—you—by this: that you leave in me a wound that I do not want to replace.

—Jacques Derrida

PEPC Edition 2006 © Alan Loney

Open axioms

take up the mantle of writingit will save youit will render you invisibleit will destroy you

you have come out of nowhereinto the insufferable sufferable presenceof everything

the white-winged book receivesthe alphabet and the insects of eveningalike

pages darken underyour hands

each of us ‘perfect’ strangersdear disinhabitantsof earth

the gender of the body of the poemthe gender of the body of the book

the sparrows are everywherearriving soon

in the city I look for youin every faceand find you there

even the littlest fountain’spersistent spray

not knowing your body

my own escapes me

I deny the violence of the bookI am the book’s violence

you, the city, the words—each is unreachableeach over-reaches me

endlessly repeatendlessly repeal

Return

this heap of wordswhere did I get themhow will I give them back

writing they collapseinto whiteness

I vanish into their darkbut it is no help

they erupt onto the next pagewith a flick of the wrist

For love

at any moment the windwill sweep the wordsoff the page

when did these words lose my voice

when did this bodylose its touch

the foreign language I writeis my own

Espalier

writing’s need comeswhen there’s nothing to say

when something’s to be saidwriting abandons me

falling into errorwith every breath despair with every thought

will you ever know morethan loss of the beloved the child at the window and rain drivingup river

A continual falling

all journeys leadto their beginnings

all your losseswill equal your desires

all the light contains all the dark

all its leaves will desertthe book

all your lovewill cometo nothing

Flowering

over all the earththe opening of petalsis never done

the winged words fly awaytho they never leave younor leave you alone

every step is a stepaside

Pier

you look at a fixed point on shoreonly a moment before the pier itselfis moving

starfish on the sea-floormotionless but for the waves’wavy distortions

low over water the cormorant’smirror-image and shadoware the same

even here I cannot keep my handsoff the body of the book

thought drowns on the pieruntil a pale leaf floats againstthe flow of waves then disappearsreturning you to your unfathomable depth

The limit of shame

when there’s no one to excuse youthere’ll be no excuse

deceit lies in waitfor your innocencefor your guilt

there is no gentile wailing wallfor your gentle tears

what pleasure there is surprisedby an unfamiliar configuration of sailson the water

who’s going to rescue mewhen I’ve gone

In memory of those who died herefor Martin Edmond

all who ever lived

erasure even of the sign of erasure

the deep abiding ignorancethat makes writing possible

flax-blade waving its futile lustfor death

everything you need will cometo pass you by

nothing that you ever sawwill be seen again

we have been supersededby the monument

how the river slithers silkilyover rocks

the insensate asymmetryof the death of dying

where will you turn when there’s nowhere to go

The dream of love

as if a trapeze were to stopat the outer edgeof its upward swing

as if writing were to so fill the pagethat no words could be read

as if at day’s end there was nothinghe could do—not even sleep

as if everything has now been writtenand she commands him : write!

as if in falling, the ground recededat the pace of his fall

as if the key to his life kept spinningto no effectin his mind

as if the combined rooftopsof the citywere a desert

as if when turning towards hershe always disappears

as if the muses danced around youand never sang

I am the true vine

I am the illusory silencebetween tracks of the music

I am the music of seductiontowards death

I am oblivion in the place ofawakening

I am the repetitionof the tearsof the desert

I am solitude, celibacypoverty, all hopestripped away

I am two white geesefeedingat the edge of the world

I am your false lovertrue to the end

It goes without saying

the apocalypse does notfulfil the book

it erases it

Beauty

you stalk meas you walk away

the endless un-makings of his lifebloatwithin him

the flickering candleor flickering starlight is the closest he will get to it

his ear for hurt hears the heartas earth, the hearthas fire, the flameas her, the bodyas hurt

beautykills

Cover to cover

all the leavesscuttling across the roadin their dry death

the gutters openleaves fill the mouthswith song

in memoriam : love of anotherwho returns it, addressunknown

bound to her, whose threadsweave, irretrievably his signature

she is my fatherand my brotherand my son

around each letterpressed into himis her halo

all the words givenall the wordstaken away

Writing the beloved

her every point is a circle

what is enough for now

how shall he read herwho writes him downfurther and furtherwith every word

I am alreadyat the ends of the earthfor you

all that stands between usis deaththe death of a clump of soilwhich never dies

there is no path to the point of no return

The heart is everywhere

it is agony for me to read

facing pages only face to facein a closed book

the halvesthat were never onenever apart

saved by the bellbook and candle—hollowcaustic of the day

in the midst of naminghe is cut off

the last thing he wantsis what he wants

Pure as the paper you are written on

purity is pure idea

read a book, look at a picturethe invisible paper mirrorsyour invisible self

writing on paper iswriting on water

Birthday

the yearwith no beginningno end

all your giftswill be returnedbut not to you

the broken back ofthe book

the broken book ofthe heart

writing, he holds down the bookthat had left himbefore birthlong after his death

soft voicehard word

there is no birthno day

nothing will be re-writtenagain and again and again

the year’s yearningwithout end

Palimpsest

the empty page you would markis already choked with words

you will never get them offyour chest

beneath each worda mountain of words

all the ink in the worldwill not unravel them

all the blood in the worldwill not cleanse them

each day you risk drowningin your own guile

Megaphonos

gather all the dead around you

let each recite their last words

the last words of the deadare the first words of the living

let each of the dead die againonce more

≈

lowering the case that holds youinto the earththe dead will not underwrite youtossed on the sea

≈

they say the imageis nascent in the stone

they say the wordis nascent in the ink

they say the song is nascent in the mouth

they lieyou had better believe them

≈

however short the journey

you will not carry the book with you

however far you gothe book will weighupon your heart

≈

if the deadare your true companions

can you live up to themthis nonexistent hordeof immortals

≈

boats on the rivereach at each other’s wake

the sound of ussurrounding ussounding us out

≈

forgetting is your supreme preludeto wisdom

wisdom is your abject preludeto forgetting

the sunamite will always lie with you

her lying is the only sweet truthyou will know

≈

it ends in what beginsbegins in what ends

line uponline

strophe upon strophe

katastrophe upon katastrophe

The condition of music

to what rhapsodic monsteris he giving birth

Of what use is my tonguein this emptiness despairyour most adhesivecompanion

you speed upand slow down beyondall the languages

beyond the sound of the grey heronon a grey sky

o broken word! o syllable!

I want no more words