POEMS OF DAVID WILEY     


MYTHOLOGICAL 

INSTANT 

 

Even now I know this date in ancient history 

 

The fetish birds have come to roost all gathered here

like phosphenes of a thousand stark and leafy

dreams. 

 

Now I now why Van Gogh painted crows it wasn't

death but panoply of shadow gods all looking for the

light within the Golden Field. 

 

I see old friends and lovers places words arrayed

upon white dazzling sheets where all threads meet

to recount stories concentrated in a single gesture. 

 

I know destruction revolution painting prison

politics and flight to unknown object of the blood the

sun the maze the desert orgy feats of ecstasy in far-off

cloudy regions of the mind. 

 

I know I well in all twelve houses of the zodiac I

feel the twin horn string and fin I feel the arrow

pincer mane and water bucket equilibrium. 

 

I know that every smile that every touch that every

landscape vision every poem phrase and TV tragedy

is part of myth and everything erased in

bath of stars. 

 

I know I owe a debt to endless list of names

illuminations beauties thoughts and

every one that crept or fell in

to the center of my self. 

 

I know a living portrait haunts my actions every

time I enter mausoleum gallery I run out laughing

everybody thinking victim of the art disease or

animated still life prisoner escaped from

19th century English canvas. 

 

I recognize the mosaic pleas of other mythic people

looking in the café meadow forest drawer and street

for moving cyclorama pieces parts to make the

epic motor run to rhythm earth epiphany. 

 

I thought my steps were lost in space

they come again as leitmotif

in standstill cycle orchestra

beginning ending every note. 

 

I know that I know nothing

never will I go on foot yet

mounted on an ox and all the same

like being in the show and watching too or

bobbing on the current concentrating

on euphoria the funny scenes

the creaky old machines

behind the curtain wheezing in the dust

the color and the pathos. 

 

And then the gong the sun and hunger flush the

Phantoms from a host of brightly colored peaches

In my head I burn all books like sunken fleets

that never made in to the

wars and trails are off again to telephone directory

addresses California fog Tibet in backroom third

floor sanctuary no I am not crystal ball or mirror

but still I know this day as date in future history. 

 

 


All images and text copyrighted.  All rights reserved.  ©  Copyright 2002 David Wiley.