The Mythicals: i witness
the prequel to The Mythical set of poems.
“there is no i other then the i
which looks out from within without
at the i which is the one I,
the I of all i’s, master of itself,
the root to which all i’s can be traced,
their records tied to the beginning of this eye,
the beginning before the beginning of this beginning.”
(AMM – the contagion that killed the fisherman’s wife: 2018)
heavy traffic as usual, a distant thunder through the triple glazing,
i building the maths for each stringed dimension,
my focus broken by the frozen shrieks of metallic brakes,
followed by a heavy silence, just a moment,
quickly shattered by a woman screaming.
from the balconied window I look down towards warwick road;
a crowd surrounds an overturned van, its heavy belly exposed,
punctured wheels still turning for a journey interrupted.
behind, an empty pram dismembered, spotted in blood.
“she just stepped into the road. what could i do?
i slammed on the brakes, that’s what i did.
couldn’t avoid it, shit, no way i could.”
“the lights were changing.
there’s an SUV that’s stopped, more behind slowing,
but he, twenty yards down the road, accelerated,
and this young girl, eyes on her baby, started to cross.”
“where is he? where’s Archie? Where is He?”
There is no eye other than my eye.
From within and without I watched the play,
The moment when a life’s colours changed.
Would this still be had I looked away,
The balance of my choate entropy at stake?
Through my eight dimensions every universe flows,
As does this mother’s pain, the grief splintering her heart,
and I am become her, I am her loss, the white heat of this separation.
But this ruptured moment?
it has already passed
And its pain will ebb, surge back as a love whose purity
Will astonish all who pass by its modest plaqued place –
His essence infused into the simple words, “For our Son” –
Surrounded by wildflowers, deep within the Ridings Wood,
At peace with the rhythms running, forever running,
And I will continue to be.