Lanil Kalubowila knew
he knew long before any of us did
he knew of blur and distinction
the arbitrariness of definition
for he had reached and crossed
the boundaries of sanity, so defined
and in the exhilaration of insight, advised:
‘Learn a language, for it is a window’
and then he explained —
‘When you open the French window
you can travel to and with Victor Hugo!’
He did not elaborate and needn’t have,
for Voltaire, Baudelaire and Camus
and others whose names I did not know
announced their presence.
And today, thinking of windows
I remember him and I know
as he probably did
that windows were not just languages;
they opened to histories and memories,
loves that have been and have been thus defined
loves that came and went
and in their ins and out exclaimed,
‘No, that which I am named is not what I am!’
I sit in a room of innumerable screens and mirrors
windows open of themselves or appear to do so,
one thought and one or more open
while one or more get shut
but a singularity of unknown origin
deliver in the end a dark room
with a single open window
and a strange magnetism forbids approach
but nevertheless permits light
soft and fragrant, whispering
‘it’s mine to give, I decide how much and when!”
So in that nondescript room
where ancient architectures shudder
in delight tempered with anxiousness,
sprawled on a camp cot
sweating out the seasonality of all things
naked to the elemental invasion of tenderness
I hear it:
the sound of rain
speeding through tattered banners
shattering the glasses of propriety
burning, branding and polishing too
ridiculing the urgencies of desire,
first as ceremonial drum-roll
and then as the battering rams
at the city gates:
‘I am the daughter of the sky
I can take or give life,
I can sweep away all
and I can cleanse arteries and veins
clogged with doubt, disbelief and all notions of the impossible,
I can clear them out and let the blood flow
the purest there can be,
born of and born for love
like nothing this world has known.’
It is the ultimate call
for the laying out of desire
to be honest beyond any honesty
the world has ever known:
‘I desire, yes I do!
a presence that’s immediate
be it corporeal or otherwise,
a caress made of touch or touch-me-not
an embrace of arms, an envelopment with gaze
the clasp of words with words
and words then with meaning
and meaning thereafter with fingertips
with lips and all the symphonies of flesh on flesh;
I desire the dance of give and the dance of take
the union of exchange burning into the burning ice
of sharing, the melting of all things
the unity of love,
yes, I do desire!’
And then there was nothing
a house that was without walls
windows that had no window panes
a tent without canvas;
gone, all gone
an enclosure without boundaries
or markers that insisted, ‘this is “in” and that is “out”’
and it was in that transparent matrix
that I first saw you,
naturally as words
words and thoughts
thoughts and arrival
arrival and conversation
conversation and proximity
proximity and flame
flame and inferno
inferno and ash
ash to ash and dust to dust
the making of flesh
and the poetry of transformation
the transformation of verse
into stories never told
and the untold turning into the unspeakable,
the silence (what else?) of love.
In these landscapes
dotted with the sepulchral remains
of unrequited love and the languages of insanity
in these deserts where mirage upon mirage
camouflaged the rare oasis
there were no stars to show the way
no maps or guides
just a smile that could mean anything
but was read thus:
‘explore me,
for behind the humble poetry of lips
there could be a universe containing all
or a warmth, humble and yet empowered
to deliver the the only ‘all’ that counts!’
I saw a heart in the middle of the year 2018
I saw it as a mural, sketched with past and future
I read the words that weren’t written
and I trembled for I knew, I knew, I knew
this was the insanity that made life worth living,
the impossible that was burning a tattoo on my heart
a legend that screamed
‘Possible! Possible! Possible!
and then erased it all with a smile
and in its place placed a single petal
of a flower I’ve never seen;
there was no burning and there was no ice
no volcanic ash, no glacial thrust
just a petal unknown to the world
something that might have said something I didn’t hear
something I didn’t understand,
but something which I took to mean, simply,
‘It is you and therefore it is us.’
That was the beginning of dreams,
from that moment onwards
words that had been misplaced and misaddressed
stirred in the missives of long and decrepit years
words swept out with the dust of loves that came apart
words congealed in lost archives
randomly arranged in unnamed shelves
words that had taken refuge in the temples of tenderness
hiding behind idols and the folds of curtains,
words robbed by one and all,
they returned,
and they arranged themselves at will
so I could give the poorest of gifts
and indeed the only one I had to give.
And I announced:
‘I am ready to die,
I could die in the deepest ocean
crushed by waves and whipped by currents
but no, unnecessary is such force of strength
I can perish in lesser waters
too marginal to mark on a map,
too shallow to drown a baby,
and yet deep enough for me’
and that was my humble submission.
A voice from a long time ago
returned as echo and warning
or perhaps invitation and challenge:
‘You are not you,
not the you of these years,
not the you who misread windows
not the you ignorant of insanity
not the you of sentencing and exile,
you are now winged,
you are no longer child of the earth
but the issue of soil and air,
you are eagle,
you are made to soar.’
