Going beyond the Pythagorean walls
of the world, numbers, letters, atoms
and yet the void, the void is the absolute force.
When blown echolalia
meet in the void because
the beginning is not noise
but sound
shreds of words
or you,
now and then, up there
down here, again and again, until when?
and spirits and accents to mark the beat
and pauses, intervals, leaps, and arcs
like a swallow in the sky
is the movement of this melody, a becoming.
Da capo.
Another truth, or perhaps the void
I try to touch with words
newly born from my fingertips.
The first one was blind; the rest of us
learned to keep our eyes shut
to see with words.
In small steps
a scattering of syllables
following the edge of a surface
guessing the outline of a shape
brushing against
the line breaks off
to let it be
point it out, right here
and then resume, but the doubt already seizes us
that we’ve gone too far
there’s no one around anymore
no one listening now
having reached inhuman theaters
abstract sites of entry
the backstage of language
We’ve lost our way. Go back?
Where to? Or wait.
Men without words
let’s go back with our thoughts
to the first seven days of creation
the names uncalled
with their eyes still shut
clinging to things
nature offers its voice
sound and name touch one another
on the threshold of the world
here comes the first word.
Later, in the harsh winter
the outlines on the stones grow clearer
scorching the white grasses on the ridges
on the bed of the torrent, the empty air
exhaled by other galaxies up there
has arrived.
Even now, hidden
unspoken words
whispers and signs still disjointed
rest in the folds
murmuring in their sleep
who knows what they’ll tell
if you choose to awaken them.
Essentially, every pale noema
is eventually transformed. A photosynthesis
on the tip of the tongue,
if the vocal apparatus has already prepared
the mosaic-like energy it intends to convey.
To the coal tit that has come
to the windowsill to peck, direct
rounded palatal vowels.
A high-rising threnody
of mono-vibrant retroflexes,
as with subtle and coarse movements
of your hands you punctuate the attempt.
And already shadows are falling from the corners
to darken the air and the outlines of things.
According to Preyer, the delirium of language
is that stage in which the infant
is capable of producing every possible sound
and consonants at any point
of articulation. Then everything is forgotten.
From a prelinguistic inventory
you learn the mimetic power
of the vocal gesture, poet.
This echolalic monologue
with its slender signifier
gradually recedes into slumber.
Search within the soundscape
for that pass that leads you down
into final phonetic amnesia.
The belly of the word, the mouth
where tongue and sound mingle
like stem cells and twin gametes
in the intrauterine stage
to shape the morpheme of the speaking self.
But who is the “I” and who is the “you” in the word?
Who is the matrix and who is the morula stage?
The womb receives the seed,
life repeats life, mimesis
of the identical and so
fell a foreign voice
calling out and I did not know how to answer.
A seed in sparse soil despairs
then takes root in damp slumber.
An apostrophe reveals the “I” within the “you.”
I am the “I” that faces
the “you” who are the utterance of the word,
the word passing
from mouth to mouth.
An irrevocable memory
of prenatal life
time with eyes shut
here is the sound
the existing, you who make me
exist, I, the one who hears
who pre-hears, in pre-sence.