A Cento for December 2016

Hiding my face I fled,
and the grey wind hissed behind me.

He revealed His mysteries,
so the dreamer went blushing into battle and died.

So many winged creatures
sculpted out of flight to peer from a ledge

wine is spilled on promiscuous lips

tiny dried up men speaking pure light

Do not go gentle.
Do NOT go gentle.

I will not die like the shadows of those mountains,
who are cast down by the body of the nighttime sky.
I will not die…
Dark is better for devotion.

I collect small things.
Within my bones and atriums
I can hold your pieces.
The lance of my eyes is unsheathed.
Terror has rent the fabric of the sky.
I am at the mouth of the cave. I am willing to crawl,
from death to resurrection.

Immortality exists under the World Tree, where three roots pierce the ages…
The clock will always strike midnight and history repeats.

From the thunder and the storm,
I alone tread the red circle.
I celebrate our old eternal custom,
our purifying rites.
I won’t run off.

My thoughts have a spirit’s wings,
my memories a desert wind;

Down on your knees, Achilles,
a fresh grief will flood your heart.

[With respect to Alice Oswald, Ada Limon, Mina Loy, Amy Lowell, Cynthia Manick, Marianne Boruch, Ptahmassu Nofra-Uaa, Marilyn Hacker, January Gill O”Neil, Euripedes, Etheridge Knight, Dylan Thomas, cairo mcflarlane, Andal translated by Ravi Shankar, Edgar allen Poe, Christopher Logue].

Cento by G. Krasskova