Tales

The leopard and the antelope



“There was, buried deep inside the stories of old,
an old tale revisited that told
of the leopard and of the antelope.

The people of this place said dream was a ride
inside their journey they would gaze
eyes closed wide fluid liquid open blind
stare of the storm
so blue it would gobble you down whole,
in gesture
digest you in jest
bit by bit in bite.


In exchange of tickets and fates
allow you to ride
if you wished
and the time was ripe
yellow light spots of luna
prowl mounted
moonlit on the leopard
black night


That is how the tale of the leopard
and of the antelope goes.


And then of course
there is the rest
the pace of verse the impression
slight imprint spur of antelope like bird
on a prowl of her own
in a quest of flight in different nature
akin to air in travel bird
chameleon, dandelion, a fighter,


this creature leaps at chance
for invitation to the ride

landscapes in journey they traveled
galloped territories across rivers dirt roads
trans-versed named forests un-named brooks,
inside the clearances inside the woods.
Flooded roads surrounding ascending waters from the rains. Bare passages.
Bridges built across dams near overflowing - memories of other spaces, territories revisited from above. Red dirt and water.
Daylight filtered in a sparing moment or light not at all.
A moonlit space.

In spiral dance down swirls
escape and joy
they rode across the traveling fields
to dream like life.


They traveled,
this leopard and this antelope.


What the readers nor the riders know
was that a leopard of another spotted color would attack and jump.
An antelope of another feathered kind would leap in flight.
But so the story goes that this leopard and this antelope were old
made out of air and dirt and fire,
old stuff, old soul,
fused elemental tales of necessary childhoods in both,
fused tales of some future,
elemental synthesis.


Except in dream or for a fault of mine in fate or in time,
these two, these people said, will never meet,
this leopard and this antelope
except in dream, they said, where they love each other,
as fiercely as they can,
given their leopard and antelope within and without
their natural and not so natural skins.


Take a ticket to ride, a destination,
take a ticket, they said, these people
and just go,
just ride the dream.


better still know,
the dream is you,
you are the ride.”


August 4, 1999 – 2006 - 2010

Rituals

Rituals

“Fortified by its knowledge of the Book of the Dead, then, the Wake here answers the haunting eschatological question of how the decaying corpse, buried in loamy inertia and scattering throughout the material universe, initiates the process by which it resurrects itself bodily into life: it opens its mouth in the hour when the sun moves through the gates of dawn, and it lets language, consciousness, and sunlight flood back in to replace darkness.”

Quotes from “Joyce’s book of the dark: Finnegan’s wake”, by John Bishop

Forever do we try to gather then at dawn
force open the lid to the loamy inertia
so as to return to scattered play primordial dance
no mating in view, lusco fusco twilight chiaro scuro
sunlight so bright
the words of language curse our morning breath so foul


Unable to retreat the light a beacon we flock to Sunday Sermon
we build inside these walls we dress
we mate the tonic of our loss
we lose our visions we chat in language forget the magic
unable to sustain in holding hands we marry
the rituals of these words.


Bookkeeping

"Presuming to speak directly from the point of view of the corpse, the Book of the Dead may be one of the few books on earth ideally written for an audience consisting entirely of the dead.”

 
If you write of things from the night
of the dark perspectives,
yet continue to expect living creatures
to give you understanding…

Well then apply the great concept,
call yourself the reluctant writer from the depths,
start to keep two sets of books,
two sets of diaries, two sets of memories,
two sets of loves:
one for the accounting of the living
one for the accounting of the dead.

Erica Weick
At the turn of the millennium…

Inhabit the body

“In-habit the body”:

when I grow old

i will enter my body

crawl the corridors

inside my skin

frolic in vein

loom in textiles

review the prices, the fairness,

invest in coins

invent

the market place

in simmer the harvest

sample the meat

conquer the yeast

inhabit my indonesia

brocade, velvet burgundy

sacred cows

golden buffaloes

lantejouled Indian theatre

untamed tree of life

hometown of my dreams

in ferris wheel giggle

the pleasure of the ride.

September 30, 2010
Erica Weick in a dream

Transformations

Transmogrifada


Se eu fosse um gato
ia lamber
sua orelha do escutar
a bôca do seu falar
mão do acolher seu coraçao do caçar

no pé da gôta do envelhecer
em cima da sua pena
eu ia dormir
cada dia de noite
cansada

E no acordar
se eu fosse um gato
eu caçaria seus ratos

Alfonsina y el mar (subtitled)

Hide and seek

or(The painted stick on Thanksgiving)

Abandoned to this territorial beige,
in the geographies of my phases:

Indian Ocean treasures, Meaipe mica and the Chesapeake
Bay of Israel, pebbles of Saint Lucia and sand.
Thyme and maritime roses, lambs of diamonds,
little tiny seeds,
those of pine for us, those for the prairies
those late in season for the birds.


Great hide and seek positionings
green buffer zones inside my heart.

Constant search for mythological blues, ephemeral ponds
where the bull frog does not chant,
where the salamander is savvy.


The painted stick and I shiver and shake,
awake like dogs in the trail under the willow oak;
Chameleons in gold, silver bronze of fancy dress
of change and of chance,
(Glitter and gliss of family dinner thanksgiving forgotten)


We remain,
and we travel first class
and a capella.

Captions to Cartoon

or
The Story of the Arrogant Sensual Poet and the Shy Romantic
Cartesian Woman
or
Triangles, Quadrangles, Kaleidoscopes and Cornucopias

(excerpted from the Book of Revelations)


He leaned forward, and in a fluid motion slipped on his reading glasses, slid his hand slowly across the cold marble table, middle finger touch in the center of her open palm, lightly.

"Your relationship to me is not part of a triangular construct, not at all. Imagine it instead as motion. You see, I have given this subject some serious thought."

He tossed his head back, light catching gray trapped between dark brown.

Not daring to move, she opened her eyes wide and listened. Heat cold tingle, the perfect shiver spread upwards from palm, the point of touch to heart. Like a bivalve organism, she breathed in tandem hope for quietly in and out. A slow down a wish, a certainty she would bring him to tell her something of significance - he would tell her he was in love with her - nothing else mattered - he would write a poem for her, right there and then. He would touch her once more.

He continued on about lines and triangles, connotations and words - she almost understood exactly what he was saying - not quite, though, not yet. If only she could try harder - finish reading the poems he gave her.

His well-modulated voice lullabied her. Some said hoarse from too much smoking and drinking - she preferred to think deep voice from his training in theatre.

"The linear views place you on the outside. Linearity is a simple phenomenon. It sees only itself, its own progression and evolution. A line connected to another line to another line. You add the three lines and zoom into the flat triangle viewed from above. It is like a child's drawing on a white piece of paper, no perspective at all, except for your zooming view!"

He explained his vision with fervor, gray blue eyes focused on a spot slightly to the right of her left ear, she was not quite sure. Maybe he was looking at her. Four months of dating, it seemed to her he might be myopic. At least he may have some problems with his vision. Timid, she tried to interrupt, but he kept on talking.

"The view from the inside, or if you wish to call this, the non-linear view - think about this! This view brings you to shapes that have borders, roughly circumscribed by these imaginary lines. Not bound by the lines, they are only circumscribed. You have added precious additional dimensions to your perception. Do you know what I mean?"

Not waiting for an answer, he gestured, widely encompassing the whole room.

"It might be easier if you think of cells dividing - or even before the division of cells - as Liz suggests, consciousness comes from that first single burst of cell division."

She looked across the room. Naked cells were dividing right before her eyes. Relentless, his lovely voice brought her back to the hot simplicity, but he went on.

"Then, there is of course another view, and that is the feel of cornucopia and kaleidoscopes. The lines dissolve entirely and all shapes change. Harvest in triangles, quadrangles move in space, these deep liquid forms acquire meaning. Not just random meanings, rotating in a badly educated child's view of computer geometry. No, depth of connotations, random depth of perception! This is serious. You see, there is a definite flaw in your view of triangles."

He stopped, blue gaze unfocused –

"I'm thirsty; these people here seem so inadequate! Can we go somewhere else, and get something to drink?"


Erica Weick,
revisited in 2013