{"id":223,"date":"2018-04-21T00:18:01","date_gmt":"2018-04-20T22:18:01","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/people.unil.ch\/enitsteiner\/?page_id=223"},"modified":"2018-10-26T13:12:41","modified_gmt":"2018-10-26T11:12:41","slug":"lausanne-back","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/people.unil.ch\/enitsteiner\/lausanne-back\/","title":{"rendered":"Lausanne & back"},"content":{"rendered":"

Lines written \u00e0 la recherche du temps perdu on the commute Zurich-Lausanne:<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

pearls of oil poised
\non the golden crust of bread
\nmy Swiss neighbor baked<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

olives shoot from boughs
\nobedient to the stick carved
\nfrom a sister branch<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

blades of grass caress
\nthe ankle among dahlias
\nchosen to be cut<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I crushed a beetle
\nit didn’t see me coming
\ndoes its death exist?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

paper from your tree
\nshelter of black characters
\ncrisp in my fingers<\/p>\n

on a dying leaf
\nthe poet wrote a ballad
\nof immortality<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

did the flutist mourn
\nthe reed pierced and stabbed by hands
\neager for music?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Pan’s hooves in the heart
\nof a house of water flows,
\ndwelling of the reed<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

to you E B B,
\nfor stripping the instrument
\nof the artist’s lure<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

ice of sky on ice
\nmountains heavy with prophecy
\nfrom a dark summer<\/p>\n

1816 clouds
\nthe tales of orphan creatures
\nstarved for mother’s love<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

learning to watch from Dorothy Wordworth:<\/em><\/p>\n

apple blossom snows
\nin mid-spring, it idly divests
\nfleshly bulbs, hubs of promise<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

in loops, elfish vapour
\nmounts at the edge of the wood
\nnow — a grey chimney<\/p>\n

spring is drenched in green
\nI mourn that it came so fast
\nand miss what I see<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

white lines of the air
\nwhiskers in the gem blue sky
\nthat’s how airplanes shine<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

airplanes above our heads
\nin languid pursuit know nought
\nof the mating flies below<\/p>\n

Lit are the houses
\ntheir shades stretch above the lawn
\ngrass blades fold in two<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Now the scythe hangs High
\nnow hungry-mouthed it drops
\non yellow star bloom<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

hair curled, sweat gathered
\nlike a globe soon to tumble
\nthe long long nape line<\/p>\n

a glistening wet trace
\never slimmer, ever lithe
\ndraws its way on skin<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Echology<\/em><\/p>\n

when all is silent
\nbut the breath of the earth
\npushes wind and branches
\na mountain shadow shivers
\nbelow metal wings
\ni forget to shiver
\npress my ears against my palms
\nand ask
\nelm, can you hear that too<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Bamboo trees connect me
\nto the sky’s immensity,
\nbamboo clothes my skin.<\/p>\n

This skirt comes from trees,
\nit’s pulp ripped from bamboo trunks,
\nripped my bones to wrap.<\/p>\n

When the tree became
\nviscose to shield nakedness,
\nbamboos came of age.<\/p>\n

Where trees come of age,
\nthe forests disappear,
\nviscose clogs our homes.<\/p>\n

Bamboos rose up high,
\nA tree once sprung from the soil,
\nnow wrapped in a closet.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

how many layers has this place,
\nbugs threading in grass
\ngrass at the foot of the tree
\nbirds darkling on purple boughs
\nhorizons waiting to soak the sun of dawn
\ndawn with an airplane, machine of the air,
\nthere a white whisker,
\nhere the wish for a shooting star<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

i was no longer alone,
\nin my room, my pod, my cocoon
\na brown, maroon-shelled body,
\nshiny armor, a broken rainbow on the move
\nstroke the edge of the blue wall
\nswift-paced with no eyes on me, creeping before my eyes.
\nA cockroach by the wallpaper’s white lily.
\nWhite lily of the valley, velvety in my fancy,
\nimmaculate heads at the feet of the Madonna,
\n— now surprised by a stain.
\nI heard my voice rise:
\nYou must leave this home
\ncreeping creature of the earth
\nhome is mine to call,
\nlilies mine to covet,
\nearth mine to name.
\nI, creature, know nothing from the word go
\nnothing to the last tick of the clock
\nbut to you I speak of unbending law<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

tick-tock, tock-tick, tttick, kk
\nexhale with all your might
\nforget the metal sound
\nrelease your jaws, unlock your lips
\nso air can blow past your teeth
\nand the quiet of the unconscious hover
\nuntil the gallop of the tock whips the\u00a0 again<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Lines written \u00e0 la recherche du temps perdu on the commute Zurich-Lausanne: pearls of oil poised on the golden crust of bread my Swiss neighbor baked   olives shoot from boughs obedient to the stick carved from a sister branch   blades of grass caress the ankle among dahlias chosen to be cut   I … <\/p>\n

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