Still Point

by Seth Jani

Morning. Nothing really.
The clock with its endless precision.
The movement of wind.
A barrage of leaves at the window.
I tap the cup until the coffee stirs,
Tense my nerves until the blood starts up.
The only gesture here is the one that beckons
To no one.
The only music, the kind
We cannot play.
Mitochondria dance, though we will not
See it.
The earth spins, though who would know?
The bird that is my body
Does not flutter or beat.
The stone that is my soul
Does not blossom or budge.

Drinking with El Greco

by Seth Jani

In Spring you slowly sip a porter,
One Sunday night
While the voices in the wind
Are grave and rocking.
You grow intently
Upwards from below,
The root-sop of the soul
Surging to your mouth.
You kiss a poster
Of some dark city in Spain,
Tracing the lineaments
Of steel light
Which seem to slip
Through chinks inside
The photo,
Reaching out
To touch you
In your room.
You look out
At your own
Most haunted city,
The old jazz-blare
of traffic
Dipping and diving
Through the night,
The same uneasy darkness
Nodding from above.

Ecstasy

by Seth Jani

Like everyone it’s love I want,
Stepping out this cold December evening
Into the perishing light of winter
Finally revealing the jutting movements
Of my heart
Which all day have been hidden
Beneath countless layers
Of cotton and fleece.

I walk the gray canals of the city
Certain that every stranger
Is equally embarrassed
By his unruly longing,
And that any second
Great crowds will bubble forth
Fed-up with the facade
And that in sudden disregard
Of our historic purity
We will come together
Swept of every office
And breathe out
In one hot junction
The secret hunger of our lives.