October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
Shuddering, I believe I hear Orion’s flaming key. I’ll make perfect words for this moment, like varnished, heart-shaped leaves under the unwrinkling angels who reveal blurring colors and live over the forests of my belief. This is such a mystery we have in our hands, furious, unspeaking butterfly music, something made of wood in the shadows of music. Every mind is as a prism to her burning lace. She is the blue Druid. One hundred warm years are many rainstorms to endure. So it is with this fantastic blood of sonatas, the fantastic blood of sonatas dangling red roots.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
I shudder to demand of the unwrinkling angels (bright winged over damnation-burned orchards), chant me another century of perfect sonatas! Songs that will insist against the darkness like an idiot’s bombs, gunsmoke and blurred colors. We living fires will cluster in the forest as if nothing were left but what we believe, night mysteries that force our awareness. Planet-shaped wine smoke as clear as clarinets is the key to the flaming Orion in our hands and irises. Inspire me perfectly where my words touch melody, and let my words cease brittle hearts from falling dead into the sun.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
The shuddering lightning is old: these colors crash down with elegance, wild flowers from the sky demanding entrance into this town. It is as if a pulse of immortality were singing before us in glory: thoughtful roses and celestial elegies. Go to your room disturbed only by sunlight and war at the mouth of the hurricane and laugh at the golden sonatas at the dusky roots of all dreaming. Shuddering lightning is at war with your melting bed drenched with the music of string quartets, and now a rainstorm falls through the darkness of a completely dim cake’s densest thought.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
The names on the Declaration of Independence were people who risked a King’s fury to rewrite the future by way of revolution. They dared this king to be their damnation. They saw another future in these waterways and woods as the sunlight here chipped wisdom into their faces. Studying maps by lamplight, they were surrounded by a country of damp, black earth below open spaces shuddering with lightning and rain. The names on the Declaration of Independence scorched history and set their moment apart in a way that still quickens the native pulse with the mountainous immortality old fingers created.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
A prism rests in the colored chambers. Now I hold it in my planetary hands. Here are the bluegreen shadows of the moon, underlined by smoke. I hold a woodcut, someone’s keepsake for a hundred years. I offer broken words for the future from my colored chambers and ask cold questions in a little town. Melody grows. A hieroglyph of summer and of the future shall begin with this rainstorm, a distillation of fire. Meteors honey the night. There must be meteors also falling into the sun. This poem will be their elegy, or such is my curious morning thought.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
These are the moon’s blue colors, or many of them. These are the rainstorms at the hurricane’s mouth. These are the colored chambers that break our fingers, break them and outline our faces. These are the bones cracking inside our planetary hands. This is the smoke that creates isolation. This is the smoke that is the beauty of darkness. These towns concentrate on the heavens from their bluegreen shadows. I’ll make words to ripple forever, placing them in the hands of one hundred years. There is so much rubbish up in the clouds. This is for the terrified persecuted ones.
