Writing
Travel log: Canyonland
by Imola Nagy
Desert peep-show:
I see a person and the cloud of the person.
Old soul crosses the limbo.
This is me: 1:1 scale map.
But, you,
little one, come
Walk around in my hanging garden
Compared to which the Seven wonders
Are but fading copies.
What would you like to see?
Ages overlapping, planes dissolving
Or being born in me?
The world without, before and after you,
Or perhaps some lasting adoration
Between a rock and a Triassic tree.
And what do you have to offer to me?
Two-by-fours gently abducted, die erected!
Nothing is changing, everything is permanent.
Everything is changing, nothing is permanent.
But permitted?
“I’m
doing it, I’m doing it “–
Stoa of the soccer fans
Destined to be a chameleon.
But, instead, you’ll be the first
Mushroom-humming-man in pajamas
With huge, turban-like rock
Hanging down on your shoulders.
Carry it, if you wish,
Step out of it, if you can.
Visita terra interiora.
and rectify the gums of the mother ship.
May the wood-lizard
Rock-lizard
Sky-lizard
Help you!
Hanuman, who
carves clouds
In the rocks with no tools,
Speaks with his god in the name
Of all those who have canes or wands:
Your Majesty,
You are my Winged Sun and only hope
My body is tired and wicked
My mind grew too old,
Let me resume my wandering.
There is a tribe in the Lost Valley;
The dwellers are mute, but they can see.
They know how to keep silent;
They live deep inside my skin;
You can find them.
But it moves,
it curves!
Saw it with my eyes.
This is a
well-balanced soccer-game
Beyond excitement,
As you wish.
Or just a well-known Moon-flight
With your fists empty and tight.
The Big Lonely, following us in the distance,
Begging us to be his companion
If only for a fractal of the time.
Light floods the empty canyons,
Life after death, white after red.
Wish you were closer,
Sunken in white.
Mute woo-doos
show us the way
Simulation of the builder
Who built his wife alive into the walls of the fortress;
To keep them erect.
-But this is my fortress, right here.
Woo-doos turn into pines-trees,
Growing rather from inside,
Living behind the tribe of the silent killers
To lush paradise, dreamt by the desert,
Sought for with eagle-eyes.
I am going to build a stair into the sky.
Then something purple shows up,
Breaking the eternal love of the silver-sage
For the sun burnt red rock with the
Wrinkled handkerchief and the faded map
Or just an old Zen painting.
Day and night.
The desert
thinking about the city
The city dreaming about the desert
Everything in the solitude of it’s own shadow
Waiting for the riddle to be read, to wake up again
In the mausoleum of the metamorphosis,
In the skeleton of a 200 million year old landscape
Or in a laboratory evidence
Of a wood-bone-stone crystal.
