Ash Roses

Touch is the sacrament.
It lies within the grain of wood
That grows, and nourishes.
I have builded my house
Below the shifting of the earth,
I have builded my house
On the liquid rock;
And the earth root cracks
The centre of the world,
And eager the sap rushes heavenward.
This is the Ash to my ash.
Let no one question that there is chemistry
Between these natures, watch
The blessed conception as they touch,
Veiled in steam.
Let no one part the wave and flow,
Or halt the spin that sends the solid wide.

I want to take you down the paths.
This labyrinthine garden scares, intimidates,
But no need.
I want to learn well the twisting routes,
Touching the curves at every turn,
And following straight paths to their conclusion.
Now there is a maze centre, I have heard,
That changes, and the hedges too,
For nothing stays the same from day to day;
But I love best the calling out
When we have lost our navigation points,
Sweet voices used to find each other.

There are panthers in my bedroom,
Flame-eyed with waving tails;
Bright burning-eyed with
Harsh sandpaper tongues;
Coal-eyed panthers, more and less,
With tongues like glass.
I plan to be eccentric, old,
With a hundred cats;
But panthers are madness,
I must be off my bat;
I’m not old enough to be harmless,
Not yet.
They sheathe their claws
And wander as they will,
Drinking from the toilet bowl,
And fading through the walls;
But one sits by me,
Growling or purring,
Sitting, staring, still;
Glaring through committed eyes.
Until I’m not sure who’s burning,
Not sure who’s sleeping,
Not sure whose claws are where.

Your eyes are dark sometimes,
Wanting to trust;
Smiling, showing
An outline of colour,
Muted and dim behind;
O my eye.
Your mouth is joyful
Sometimes, and the light
Floods back across your face;
A clear, passing moment,
When wanting is no ache;
O my light, o my eye.
The moon shows her face 
Sometimes, from behind
A storm of clouds, passing;
An outline, a moment that turns,
That leaves an ache behind;
O my moon, o my light, o my eye.
The four chambers beat
Sometimes, combining
In perfect chorus,
Flooded with longing,
Their centre, yours and mine;
O my heart, o my moon, o my light, o my eye.

The symphonia on my knees,
Keys singing Machaut under my fingers.
The old song had lingered
On parchment for six hundred years,
I sent back, played it awake.
Eased the sound over the crowd
That hovered in the air,
And held them there.
I said: This dance comes to us
From medieval Italy, a long way,
The Salterello means a Jumping Dance.
If there’s anyone here from Italy,
Or somewhere else,
Inclined to jump as I play,
Please do.
The dance sprang to be heard,
Like the first flower of May,
First passerose,
The children clustered
Around the stage like a garden.
I bent my head low,
Listening for the sound
And threw it back.
At the first puncta, gaining speed,
My fingers curved like oil over water.
Then I looked over
Where the sound unfurls like light;
There, my twin angels,
She dark-curled, he close-cropped blond,
And neither more than four years old,
Were bouncing up and down like reeds,
Drinking in the light,
And when they knew I saw,
They jumped up farther,
Higher than before,
Shouting to me:
Amor mi fai danzar.

There is no rose that lives and dies thornless,
Without the thorn, the rose inveterate
Breeds lifeless life, inviolate.
No rose is born without the hope of death
Incarnate on his stem.
Breathe, I command: the flesh incarnadine
Is served by drinking, growing, breaking, dying;
No light withstands.
Softly suspire, transfixed upon the spine:
Wine-dark thought, crimson stain.
Your birth is marked with anger, ravished flower;
This age has withered, watching, yet
You hold the air dependant.
Also, then take mine,
And wreathe, recarnate, through the pressing light.