I. ENIA, 1996 VIOLIN-CASES Instruments are but our need to hear something else than our stupid voices. Yet through the sounds of the violin you get to grasp the meaning of silence and death. Violinists should have been dwarfs; once dead, we’d bury them in their violin cases. MYTH 2 He closed his eyes and whistled urged by an impulse born in the bosom of complete and utter silence. It was spring at the time. The forest smelled of fresh green akin to a reservation, a refuge. Wherever he reached with his hands, he touched a life other than his own. Then she descended from the moon and following the traces of his long whistling, lay asleep on his lips. II. DREAM-MILL, 2001 THE DEAD AND THE THINGS He is dead. “We gathered here today to lay our beloved to rest”. His personal items are listening to the women wailing as they endure their temporality. The stir of death exaggerates the immobility of things. Toothbrush, socks, shoes, shirts, watch, a few notes meant to be revised. A week later they pile them up. They burn them – oh, villainy! – or discard them. Usually something is left behind. Found by the widow years later. She cries over it and puts it somewhere safe. III. GROWER'S MANUAL, 2004 PHANTOM LIMB The mirror stands within shooting range. We duel every night but the space between us prevails. Lately I subject myself to intensive therapy. I am not allowed to look through the window. Opposite us, Pentadaktylos curses our very race then vanishes; for someday, time itself must return home. The luxury apartment building conceals the shame – veiling it in familial activities. Facing the mountain I train myself to stand adeptly still because my soul cannot move to a house with a better view. I never wrote a letter without a recipient even when I didn’t know where to send it. On the other side of the city I can hear scattered gunshots. Then again, fireworks explode so often that I’m thankful for the relevant confusion. When your mother started screaming they thought she’d gone mad. the truth being that she’d just counted the years you’ve been missing. Pentadaktylos! – you sigh. How ably still. Like our hand that despite the chronic bleeding has no sensation of the five fingers it’s been missing. How is this possible? I yelled. How is this possible? On the news they said Kyrenia has been dry ten days now yet I’m not in the least thirsty. Calm down, plant something in your garden, advised the doctor. It’s too deep. I can’t reach it. DOUBTFUL ATTEMPTS AT METAMORPHOSIS So this is where you flow into when as if by magic you vanish from the naked eye’s non-leaded bullets still fired by the lost revolution. Tell me, how much time does it take you to turn into a flowing speck in that tiny furrow of the neck and then like a broken chord emptying its notes inside a wide-open silent mouth gush out into the world? I want to see if you’d broken the world record another charlatan claims to hold. He is the one who insists that through an adjoining groove he escaped into my heart’s canopy and now boasts of causing sudden arrhythmias and brief tachycardia things prompting the drilling of old-time memories and their abrupt translation onto the mind’s tiny attic. But when the computer lingers untouched for a while larvae on yellow-green plants appear crawling slothfully over huge stretched-out leaves akin to hand palms. To penetrate the poem they sometimes attempt; in vain. To break with the system – to become butterflies. A GROWER'S MANUAL Your face was different this morning. What kind of stab has scarred it so? I thought I had warned you to quit growing them: stray hands; they never will sprout and write the sublime word. It was inevitable they’d turn against you enraged at the soil’s poor quality. How could they bud with so much blood watering them? The blood was theirs and up until recently it flowed within their veins. Take heed of my words: I don’t ever want to see you again boasting spontaneously to have grown wings for a vertical takeoff. What takes off must crash down. You might as well cultivate twilights with seeds of unregistered sun. Besides, there’re so many stale rays in your stockroom. They long to shine for a moment. Take me, for instance. For so long now I’ve stopped blossoming in public to gain easy access to the bladed night. I chose to compromise with a secret blooming. And of course, at some point I had to wither away just as I had promised those innately jealous dried-up weeds. It was then that I turned all my branches inside to an empty space that if you don’t seek out you’ll never know it’s there. By trial and error in all kinds of movement do you learn to respect absolute stillness. I mean look at how many years it takes trees to die. IV. The UNDONE, 2010 SMALL CHILD SPEAKS DEEP INTO THE FUTURE You used to hold me tight in your arms lest I sink into the sea lest I stumble down the stairs (and plunge into the canines’ stares) lest I overtire as I staggered with blind eyes into the fall of night. Only from the blast of time that dragged me and casted me away deep into the future where I am yet to grow up did you not protect me and now that I need your arms more than ever to hold onto awhile and regain my breath now that you should ingest my puffing and breathe me in - you had to become the barren twig of a perennial tree in an age ridden garden. My God - when did you wither so? I gather all the years on a day I call yesterday and trace the line that tenderly caressed my forehead each time the pear appeared in a plate on the table meticulously chopped as always for fear that it might swerve in my throat and bring on yet another choking-induced overturn. SEA OF HAPPINESS Lately more often than before you escape crossing the line of no return. A pale dot you become not on the horizon but in the wide sea of happiness. Drenched, you return distant and uncanny. I try to wipe you with an infinity dry and unfailing that I set free by transposing a mountain. Less and less of you I find each time. Your joy, misty is now the color of water; and your touch, the incorporeal that caresses me when I feel nothing. Persistently I ask you: I have a sun of my own hidden in an unmarked sea; now that the ice melts shall I light it up? It yearns for drought to break. You do not respond? Then why insist on returning. Have you ever seen the living coming back to the dead? Why do you insist on returning? Each time stranger than before you approach each time in the form of someone else you keep drawing away. OBLIVION Deep it is very deep that which lies unfilled by your absence. I make to cover it with an improvised bandage of oblivion yet it insists on asking for you and you alone obliging the incorporeal to yearn for matter and weep. How can what is not there know what it misses? What oblivious man prescribes the specifications of forgetfulness for the things bound to expire beyond and outside of what our days were meant to withstand? A crafty stranger with precision is making sure that the want of them heavily descends. As if they had really been there. THE UNDONE How much rain failed to fall from the clouds’ hesitations? The sky was black in labor. It wanted to rain heavily. It didn’t. An invisible wall, hesitation. The more you climb it the more it rises. Breaking against it, tall waves of love enclosed in the unsaid as dexterously as it deters dry lives from pouring those tottering across the frontier between land and sea. What happens to all the things that were not done? – you asked. I suppose they are stowed in dams of dreams then channeled into a thirsty future with tributaries expanding far away beyond any drawn map drop by drop watering the undone.