Carolyn Forche - Blue Hour

no breath of God, no words, and no possibility of restoration

no content may be secured from them

no one prayer resembling another

not a house but a stagnant hour

not blood, flesh and bread but an earthly ecstasy

not isolation but a lack of solitude

not only the flow of thoughts, but their arrest

not wishing to know anything more about oneself

nothing as it was

nothing other than mind

nothing was exiled from itself

now and again like a voice grown suddenly tired

now on the plane in a white-out

objects [heavenly bodies] as they were in the past

oder nicht

oil soap, orchard, ossuary

old books snowing from our hands

older than clocks and porcelain, younger than rope

older than glass, younger than music

on each tip of grass a wet jewel

on her hand, a moment of ring-light

on lave les corps, on les prépare pour l’ensevelissement

on the blanket then, government issue

on the fifty-fourth day, loss of sight and hearing

on the platform between trains, holding a bottle

on the shortwave, the high whine of the world’s signal

one for the other

one sees and is seen

one sees and is seen approaching the other with empty hands

one stands in line for butter

only the walls that did not face the blast remained white

open shell of heaven

or a failed letter

or that she would admonish me for the years of my silence

or when it first occurred to them to have graves with markers

our atelier of passing trains, citronella smoke, a veiled bed

our hymnic song against death

our most secret selves

past and present sliding into each other

pear trees espaliered along the walls

pen and ink across the boundaries

pink snow downwind of the test site

pinning their intentions to a saint’s dress

pitch smoke chalks the sky over the roof

poppy seed, portal, portrait, prayerbook

present though most often invisible

question after question

quiescent, quiet, quinine, quivering

rain falling into their open eyes

rain in the catacombs

raising each a ring of soot

redemption not an accounting or a debt

refugee, relic, reverie

relief sacks loaded into trucks

relief tents until the horizon

remaining in fear of death but remaining

responsible beyond our intentions

resting language or language under surveillance

reverses itself as we read it

riddles the statues of martyrs and turns

rinses limbs then craters the field

rinses limbs then

rises as wet smoke

rising in bodily light

roads rivered with waste and a tea-colored rain

sacks of soy and manioc, dry milk, rice

sanctuary, sea glass, sorrow

scoop of earth: slivers of femur, metacarpals

searching for something one knows will not be found

set in language and deserted by God

she heard no one’s footsteps, then nothing

she holds lilacs to her face

she meets a man on the mule-steps who has been dead for months

she pulled the lilacs to herself

she puts the rice pot down in the snow

she sees nothing of what is to come

she went with him willingly and without knowing where she was, she saw the country very much as she would have had she walked through a film about herself

she within me

she would never again wander too far into the past

sheltering in the open

shore birds, smoke, the ferris wheel turning

signature by signature in triplicate, rice and dry milk

since last night on the bridge

six hours under fire along the road

six inches from my belly

sixteen clicks after the flag of fire

slow questioners, there was no place in the world for them

smacking the hands of children who miswrote

small talk like white smoke from kindling

snow clicking as it falls into itself, hushed, a little smoke crawling from a stovepipe, following the wind or rising straight, the village so quiet that one can hear the iced branches

snow in the shadow folds, impasto, gouache

snow on the shoulders of the statuary

so as not to take a single word into my mouth

so as to be taken for refugees

so emptiness cannot harm emptiness

so it appears as if it were what we wanted

so that the dead climb up out of the river to blacken its banks

so that the other comes back

so this is how the past begins—

so we walked, pretending our empty suitcases burdened us

some dance, one holds a dove aloft

some flaw in the message itself

some were burned with cigarettes, some doused with turpentine. every night they poured turpentine through their hair and slept like that, so as to keep the leeches from giving them head wounds

some with wicker baskets, others with gathered flax, some with children in their arms, others with brooms, some dance, others hold aloft a dove someone will be pouring milk while another perishes

something broken and personal, a memory

something holding back the pouring, a turn of the kaleidoscope, a turn again, radiant, beautiful, meaningless so it is easier to choose stones from the ground, a sack of words, pieces of language from something larger, and if a single event caused this ruin, what was that event? what made night a country of terror?

something within me is no longer with him

snow catching on razor wire, searchlit fields

snow through open windows

soul on its way toward earth

sparks of holiness

spoken in unknown words of a known language

stepping back into an earlier life

strands of hair, blood, corpuscled light

streets iced with shop-glass, a flock of stones

stripped trees against winter fields

take no words by mouth

tangled lilacs, peeling walls, darkening lindens

tedium taught me an imaginary world

tendril, torpor, tributary

that even this refuge might be taken:

that ing-ing of verbs in an eternal present

that light traveled from the eye to the world

that nothingness might not be there

that you might become one among others

the after-touching memory of relief

the air around the ringing bells filled with ash

the being that lies half open

the birds became smoke

the blue whorling that once spoke

the blue-stoned streets of river rock

the boiling, sudden clouds of August

the border. anywhere. but the war zone. mattresses roped to the roof

the boundless etcetera of indifference

the breath of the invisible

the bridge that doesn’t touch the other bank

the buildings of the center city no longer

the candlelit stairwells in blackout

the cedared hills, smoking orchards, and the rivers of ill luck

the cemetery workman’s wheelbarrow

the chandelier of water against stone

the chorus of mules and roosters, goat bells, little cries

the cinema, trip-wired, the small-arms fire

the click, night

the click, night, pages turned by a wind and taken

the confessions written in gunpowder and spit

the danger of premature good conscience

the dawn sky at morning pearl and smoke, the trees stripped

the day has not yet come

the day will of all days be ordinary, its weather various

the dead were left among the living — there were no questions

the dead were washed and dressed and touched

the densissimus imber of the rain

the dreams are a coffin with an open window

the dreams of a mind in the grave

the early summer’s green plums

the empty wet shirts on the line waving