I do.

Canto CXX

I have tried to write Paradise

Do not move
      Let the wind speak
            that is paradise.

Let the Gods forgive what I
            have made.
Let those I love try to forgive
            what I have made.

-- Ezra

oh my GOD. Delirious Friday.

Can has Wasteland?

can has hyacinths,
no can has tongue.
Isolde u down teh rivers.

Dunt

       a poem for a nearly dried up river

Very small and damaged and quite dry,
a Roman Waternymph made of bone
tries to summon a river out of limestone.

Very eroded faded,
her left arm missing and both legs from the knee down,
a Roman Waternymph made of bone
tries to summon a river out of limestone.

Exhausted, utterly worn down,
a Roman Waternymph made of bone,
being the last known speaker of her language,
she tries to summon a river out of limestone.

Little distant sound of dry grass. Try again.

A Roman Waternymph made of bone,
very endangered now,
in a largely unintelligible monotone,
she tries to summon a river out of limestone.

Little distant sound as of dry grass. Try again.

Exquisite bone figurine with upturned urn,
in her passionate self-esteem, she smiles, looking sideways.
She seemingly has no voice but a throat-clearing rustle
as of dry grass. Try again.

She tries leaning,
pouring pure outwardness out of a grey urn.

Little slithering sounds as of a rabbit man in full nightgear.
Who lies so low in the rickety willowherb
that a fox trots out of the woods
and over his back and away. Try again.

She tries leaning,
pouring pure outwardness out of a grey urn.
Little lapping sounds. Yes.
As of dry grass secretly drinking. Try again.

Little lapping sounds yes
as of dry grass secretly drinking. Try again.

Roman bone figurine,
year after year in a sealed glass case,
having lost the hearing of her surroundings,
she struggles to summon a river out of limestone.

Little shuffling sound as of approaching slippers.

Year after year in a sealed glass case
a Roman Waternymph made of bone,
she struggles to summon a river out of limestone.

Pause. Little shuffling sound as of a nearly dried up woman
not really moving through the fields,
having had the gleam taken out of her
to the point where she resembles twilight. Try again.

Little shuffling clicking.
She opens the door of the church.
Little distant sounds of shutaway singing. Try again.

Little whispering fidgeting of a shutaway congregation
wondering who to pray to.
Little patter of eyes closing. Try again.

Very small and damaged and quite dry,
a Roman Waternymph made of bone
she pleads she pleads a river out of limestone.

Little hobbling tripping of a nearly dried up river
not really moving through the fields,
having had the gleam taken out of it
to the point where it resembles twilight.
Little grumbling shivering last ditch attempt at a river
more nettles than water. Try again.

Very speechless, very broken old woman,
her left arm missing and both legs from the knee down,
she tries to summon a river out of limestone.

Little stoved in sucked thin
low-burning glint of stones
rough-sleeping and trembling and clinging to its rights.
Victim of Swindon
puddle midden
slum of overgreened footchurn and pats
whose crayfish are cheap toolkits
made of the mud stirred up when a stone's lifted.

It's a pitiable likeness of clear running
struggling to keep up with what's already gone:
the boat the wheel the sluice gate,
the two otters larricking along. Go on.

And they say oh they say
in the days of better rainfall
it would flood through five valleys,
there'd be cows and milking stools
washed over the garden walls
and when it froze, you could skate for five miles. Yes go on.

Little loose end shorthand unrepresented
beautiful disused route to the sea,
fish path with nearly no fish in.

-- Alice Oswald