The Blue Book


I read my teacher’s poem aloud
to an empty river,
for this is what I know of worship.

To watch the pied kingfisher
piping its truth
between perfect little darts
beneath the dancing surface
which still, most times,
come back empty-beaked.

I waded through the musk-scented
empires of a book about loss,
naked in that salty river,
which used the recent rains
to burst its sandy banks
and return, before
the sun’s drumcrush dried it up again,
the light’s din something you can hear
where courageous scales cavort
in the face of two breeding fish eagles
and their ancient harmony.

Come here, young one,
just learning of your ancestors;
come here and cover yourself
in the soft Cintsa mud
from which first we made you,
whispering in waves
another sacred word,
somewhere between waiting
and hoping:

a simple flower, grown on
the edge of time,
reciting old lines to literally no-one
but the starlings and that flight
of black comorants followed
by one white cattle egret,
cawing in its own awkward way
another remembrance of god.


Old heart

Eyona Indala


Elogio de la Nada