Trane DeVore


 


from Nausicaa
 
 
 
Your boat of history and fish,
tongue of flame and rod of light.
The birds come bearing small children in their mouths,
a blue angel with wing upon wing.
 
 
 
III. at the heart of the forest
 
 
These shapes.  Fractal pom-pom forest.
Like thick straws with hair, or 20 times large ermine mold.
If under water this would be a forest of phoronid worms,
enormous bryzoan fan flesh, slow moving animal feather hydroids,
yellow-gold bryzoan forms like a forest, intelligent egg-sack tunicates
 
           —the light bulb tunicate, the striped tunicate, the bristly tunicate— 
 
ochre slime sponges, the lacy crust bryzoan, the Pacific star tunicate bursting out 
           constellation of

or the red tube worm, sunburst of feelers from its blood head,
or the ornate worm, terebellid worm, a worm in its nest of a body.
 
The insects, gory-green, are having a powwow in the pom-poms.
 
 
“Daijobu.”
 
Floating on the pure window, clear cold cavelake,
movement in the water trusts its own gravity.
 
 
Reflections shimmer the surface tension. 
Wave emotion as the blue insect children rise, all tensile and hoping.
This water is their float space.
Tentacles emerge like speech to touch intelligent flesh
 
           — like in a field of gold —
 
the old armor floats away, anti-gravity dream,
our hair is children again, voice of the child.
 
Trees, purified, have turned to crystal and sand.
We fall in love here, at the heart of purity where everything is dead, a sterility with the 
           potential for rebirth.
 
 
Cathedral of sound and light, like being inside a body of sand.
We stand on the trunk together in amazement.
The tree has a heart of bubbles inside.
Working at the heart of the matter, an artificial light beforms like the moon.
 
 
 
Night, and the moon, and the insects.
 
“Even the venomous Hisokusai has flowered.”
 
 
 
 
 
V. sinumbra
 
 
Building weapons for the balance of power leads to the only path left:
 
           spike-bodied dinosaur womb, purple and red-fleshy,
           the moving heart-womb of a giant god.
 
Machines pumping like hearts, veins and red.
 
The melting hand, our secret organic weapon, a body that crawls decay from its own  
           burning violence.
A fiery grave from the hole in its mouth speaking a language of burning, not teeth.
 
 
“Who could have done this to the world?”
 
Our shaking shoulder indicates this: “we sob.”
 
 
The grass rolls under our feet like waves.


 
 
VI. spoken, the heart of the forest
 
 
 
The plane is like a wounded bird, eye wide with wonder.
 
 
They are coming: carapace lays waste to the cities where the eyes burn red.
Hivedrawn, the insects return to claim their own, the young one thrown as bait.
 
 
The gun’s purple flowers.
 
 
Hivedrawn, the insects’ reticulations, carapace articulation,
calciniforous shellbands coilding an outward.
Segmented elongates, pronotum is striped or mottled tan,
a burst out of the forest, they, swarm or locust plague that cleans, actually,
that in a beautiful disaster “the ruse of history.”
 
Satural and adjacent stripe, adults and larvae feed on sunflowers.
Labrum long and triangular, body is covered with a fine pubescence.
That these are insect future = a dialectical decision in history excavates us,
our pupal selves now to learn to live with.
 
Taking the first step is to not to kill.  Taking the first step is to no resistance.
This only, an abdication, is calmative proof.
This only, the vision, an eruption of the right and the good from within a blind ogle of our
            history our shackles our politics of doomed determination.
 
 
A vision of her hair like living grass.
It falls out of the sky, wings bent like a child,
tumbles like a bumble without wings
that splay out at the last minute into flight.
 
Plane like pink plastic,
an anger so white that the body moves out through space—a pure encounter of will.
 
Flying out on the white bird from the side of the brig.
Objects emerging and disemerging from the clouds.
Swordsmanship that has not been seen since 20 red helmets.
 
The way cloaks move on the air, flap in the wind.
The way hair moves with emotion now, in this new world.
 
 
 
“She told me it was the beautiful hand of a hard-working person.”
A hand no longer the labor of swords holds its symbolic value now as flesh and cuticle.
 
 
Falling into distances, a pure slow-motion drop of beauty.
 
 
When her body, curled into itself, begins to speak:
insect cicada, charmed by insect speech.
 
Learning the speech of mandibles, of the alien = “The anger has disappeared from the 
           atmosphere.”
 
They come out like threads of light in the end, from the mouths of insects.
The one who communicates is raised in the air, placed inside a tent of light.

“What sympathy they possess.  Children, look in the place of my blind eyes.”
 
A field of kites, riding the wind.
 
 
 

 

 








© 2008 Electronic Poetry Review