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Famous Reporter # 27
June 2003
     Stephen Edgar
 
             These Fragments I Have
             Shored Against My Ruins
 
 
                         I
 
                         In the event the disks were child's play --
                         The voiced whirr of a CD tracking back
                         To Start, the sip of an indrawn breath, and all
                         Of that discarnate archive, shimmering
                         Like hosts of medieval angels balanced
                         Under a pin, in some vertiginous
                         And slant dimension folded out of sight,
                         All that numeric memory was mum.
                         More cumbersome the clearing of the shelves,
                         The many-storeyed or the miles on miles
                         Of subterranean stack, the hangars high
                         As nineteenth-century railway stations, celled
                         With loaded racks like giant honeycomb.
                         Who saw that distant efflorescence when --
                         As after rains the long-red loosened earth
                         Is paisleyed with wildflowers -- the desert bloomed
                         With millions of wind-riffled volumes, cliffs
                         Poured forth their fluttering, paginated falls,
                         The swell a Japanese brook papered with petals?
               
                         II
 
                         A different silence filled the reding rooms.
                         Denied, the glass roofs were delivered up
                         To the illiterate savage purity
                         Of wind and sky, the blind meridian,
                         Midnight's bristling star. No fiercer passion
                         Than that for emptiness and abolished time.
         
                         III
 
                         [Lost]
       
                         IV
 
                         At length a booth no bigger than a nook
                         Was sanctioned, soon a shrine, in which two small
                         Clay tablets, dredged from the immortal sands,
                         Were set, plain unpretentious blocks, on each
                         Of which an elementary sign -- a few
                         Thin pictographic scratches -- was incised.
           
                         V
 
                         Day in, day out, a steady stream of scholars,
                         Students, browsers, children, came to repeat
                         In turn, at once, the prescriptive syllables,
                         Among whom an at first unnoticed few,
                         Materializing with the timeliness
                         Native to myth and drama, from who knows where,
                         Seeded the heresy. Like Chinese whispers,
                         Their mischievous interpolations soon
                         Expunged the precept, in its sterile place
                         Recalling out of these brief characters
                         Their multitudinous volumes: "Call me Ishmael";
                         "And if ST or SK is supposed
                         To represent the accelerated force";
                         "His glassy essence, like an angry ape";
                         "Rome comprehended the fairest part of the earth,
                         And the most civilized"; "the shadow of
                         The waxwing slain"; "let down your golden hair".
   
                         VI
 
                         Sweet waters in the desert flowed again
                         In age-dry riverbeds, flocks of bright birds
                         Brought leafage to the lightning-blasted oak.
                         Voices were restored to the throats of those
                         Long dust in rooms rebuilt to overlook
                         The harbour, warehoused goods were being laded.
                         A ship set sail.

 

 

 


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