Jakub Schikaneder’s Snow (Twilight in Winter) 1899
happened a soft autumn day
where I let my untamed foot fall
off the silk edge of my ordinary bed,
to let it fight with the tarnished wooden door
hunch-backed by a snoring inverter
when past the dust-coughing jail-skins,
there came a ruffle from the
dark of tall surmounting trees
breathing on my ankles,
in all oddity of the oncoming winter.
Then I had dug under the culture’s paws
Asked them, of what of the Winter gloom—
So languid upon my prickling skin,
He had protected life.
There rests a diabolical caress
Of sandpaper bed-sheets
Till my feet are sore
From the coaling livers of the winter-verse.
Oh, to look for light switches in the dreadful dead-dark,
Paranoid chants that the curtains must not move—
All my sacred pathos intruded
Red demonstration of corpse-like darkness.
Do the old—as the Laker Poet once cried—must only lament what can no longer be felt?
In my heart, I invite
I had shut down my famished words
Again, a prayer
To be fertilized with meaning, I ink
I conjure up my sprite:
In the hearth of a breathing cold
The tepid haunt of a sea nymph
Upon one changing breeze of the earth
Colluding with mist,
Into a body of unknown
That I uncloak, even though I am dressed
In great perspiration
to reclaim the night.
I had an epiphany just now. I actually had a dream about different models of ceiling fans today–funny that I must write a poem dictated by the winds.
‘Something watches and stirs in the dark, it is alive.’