• The Resolution Issue

    Winter Tale

    The Resolution Issue
    Telegraphcolumnart web

    A site for poetry, for ways of thinking and writing that are impossible to consolidate with a political or conceptual vocabulary.

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    Mask Staff are everywhere and nowhere.

    Joburg web

    The Grapevine Telegraph

    Winter Tale

    After Heine, 1844.

    “At the end of the evening, not hearing the Voice, the listener would sometimes leave the needle on a jammed wave-length or one that produced static, and would announce that the voice of the combatants was here.”

    “What is proper to God does not belong to the angels.”




    To return,
    to the ground on which we lie
    contemplating the non-existence of the difference
    between the burning and the burned -
    to the return to the particular point on which we lie,
    Mittwölfe,
    the burning and the burned.












    Snow falls within the weary rivers.
    Salute me, brother wolves,
    on the land of the church,
    with half-starved howling voice.

    Salute me, brother wolves, on the land of the line
    firing eyes that glimmer
    for the front of the line
    amongst the song.

    Brother wolves along the line,
    us, brother wolves, to make show of
    glorification, exposed
    on the howling side of the line.












    Mitwölfe. I am happy
    to dwell amongst your music,
    Mitwölfe. You who do not make the music
    of doubt, who forget
    the bad melody of uncertain
    withering strain, that some call benign concern for a justified relationship to
    pragmatic neutrality;

    that is the wilting music,
    as slow life-time.












    Mitwölfe, the sheep skin you see hanging from me is for warmth
    only. I took it from one for whom the line
    is not a line, Mitwölfe, but a mere location within a
    wider area that one may or may not have a predilection to exist without.
    Such areas are not defined
    by mere lines, nor music - the language that names
    only minuscule indifference,
    so knows no music
    nor knows Mitwölfe.












    Mitwölfe, you see.
    Mitwölfe, you speak.

    Mitwölfe you speak the language of the drowned city.
    The language of the crystal-breath in words, still
    with the truth and the lie.

    That is the word of the dancing light,
    of magma and of bird,
    when the very idea of the food has receded

    and a hare is seen through the web of a spider,
    with all in common, quivering.












    The howl, Mitwölfe, the final physical ebb
    to breath the destruction of honest,
    from the hither side
    to make

    a newer song.
    a better song.












    Come to the church, Mitwölfe,
    come see the three,

    the patrons of incense, age, mould in bones as new and polished as a tongue.
    Come across the weary rivers,
    the smell of dust and honey, and the old hymn of transmission, and the will to
    listen:












    “Know us your crowd and be not cowed.
    Know us and sing in your pleasant
    remembered melody
    the song of consent,
    as sure as your fires be
    obedient fires, to sit below.
    For I am a saint
    and he is old
    and he is certain of what he is told,
    As a king may
    know the law
    and the rope and the
    truth as the core ballast.

    Come, remove the axe from out thy hand
    Provoke not the slanting glimmer,
    The night encroaches, the candles do shimmer
    The treasures maintain for one […]”












    No.

    A newer song!
    A better song!

    Take, Mitwölfe,
    a better song
    a newer song
    a song of nothing

    a song
    a kind of nothing,

    a song for merry cavalry
    to storm the end of the mere past,

    a song before the promise,
    a song, a wild promise to blow
    incense and gold
    for those in word, before












    the song, Mitwölfe, to
    hijack in possession
    the treasure of this chapel,

    a song of force
    to drive out
    from the line,
    as all that’s blood runs in.







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