Clouds darken the plain.
From all sides, the mountains of the horizon move forward; the plain shrinks, crumpled into valleys that grow deeper. The three rivers become torrents that flow swiftly in their cavernous beds towards those dark spots where they meet: the cities.
    Then the sun again.
    The mountains move back to the distant circular horizon; the valleys disappear, and the three rivers flow placidly in their scarcely perceptible beds of luminous sands. The cities glisten with their crystal walls and the hard light is reflected from house to house along the glass streets. Men no longer drag their dark-blue shadows like long chains that rattled on the opaque cobble stones. Silence of light: frozen wines of sound. No wind stirs, sleepily coiled around the towers that are transparent stems bearing the white flowers of clouds which float, vehicles for our pure thoughts, like water-lilies on the surface of a stream until they fade into the blue depth of space.

by Edouard Roditi

Other poems of RODITI (2)

Comments (3)

A hand has drawn this scene before us, the hand of time, the hand of nature, the hand of wind rain erosion, the hand of God created or the hand of change elements in conflict erosion, the hand of love beauty shapes these scenes to the mind of artist, painter poet musician, we all gather here to view these scenes to make our marks of meaning, walk across this scene swiftly, as swiftly as clouds darken the plain, swiftly cross gone or overcast bestow enduring shadows; mountains band all horizons within these valleys, in shadow mountains move move in, shadow swallows land in light tricks denial toning out colour bright spectrums of beauty nature's growth colours, sepia mountain tones reddish-brown rich brown pigment rocks ribs mountain flesh, light lost inks out warm colours lost into dark shadows creeping crumbling detail into shades of black upon grey, thus as valleys grow deeper as plains shrink three rivers in torrents darkened deeper, must flow swifter pushed into shades rushing blacker too deep to see perceive cavernous beds time water rush flow carved out by gouging currents time flexing finger massaging flow, to the cities where buzz bees at work drones materialism pampered, ants rushing creating colony cities hives to embrace or hound other colonies in trade in war in peace in treaties, reshaping their world immune to shadows, busy rushing seconds minutes hours into plan harvest tasks, stealing days weeks years of lives in economies desires, beneath light of sun or neon ants are busy about their tasks in shades of time. What exactly qualifies poetry a single poem as a photo snapped pattern of life lives thoughts dreams emotions feelings expressions artistic or manipulated shadows reflections clarifications of life, does a title define life, work done created temporal or enduring seconds years centuries an epoch an eon? What instant of time observation beauty raw emotion will be framed treasured or cast aside? We are clouds moving passing darkening shrinking the plain, we are water we are life we are light we are sand in the hour glass of time, we are flesh feelings emotions on journeys across the plain the sky about the city, read into life what you will, but all life is a trick of the light, gifted from the sun, split into spinning top day night, cast in clay in time to adorn whatever meaning the viewer imposes within the hand of clay time upon the canvas of life light spanning flesh emotions feelings unified into whatever goals purposes or not are vogue trend fashion culture society time flickering flowing imposed in cloud passages into horizons or nature or eternity defined.
What does the title have to do with the contents? Sorry, but this one lost me.
What exactly qualifies this as a poem? Sounds like pretentious prose to me.