Friday 7 August 2015

from Blackwater Quartet, selection 37



The Sirens

In Plato’s Republic, heaven
was theirs, golden rotations in a golden time.
Ulysses knew the song, and in it
the promise of knowledge of all things—
in the rope, in the sailor’s knot
made fast
against the frequency of everything he wanted,
the sweet somnambulance ending on the rocks.

Centuries after, the corpse of one
washed up along the shore, the face nearly human,
grey torso tapering to a faded iridescence.

Strabo the geographer saw her tomb, noting
ceremonies in her memory included
youths vaulting, and races by torch light.
Bring desire, they said, its urgency
and steep precision, bring memory and the promise of all things.

In 1403, in the Netherlands, one appeared
through an opening in an earthen dyke.
Her manner was confused, and she was without language.
Later, she was taught to weave,
and lived on there in Haarlem until she died.

In January’s flat light,
looking seaward, she called to salt, its deepest binding, her voice
many voices, cut-glass above tidal grasses, and the waves
breaking.

After This

I had a dream recently. In this dream, my wife gave birth to a daughter, who had a shock of red hair. The oddness of the dream was reinforced, as is the nature of dreams, by a series of events that had a grounding in my life, with elements of fantasy and religion.

A week after the birth, the child was sitting upright, unaided, and by the end of the month she could walk with ease and confidence. We had told no one about the birth. As dreams allow, the awkward presentation of prior events and illogical exchanges remained unaddressed. Only the child's presence was acknowledged.

By the age of three months, the child had the run of the house, and she could make her own meals, wash, and dress herself. She had grown correspondingly larger now, and was, even though only three months of age, the height and weight of a seven-year-old girl. As yet, her eyes were the only source of emotion or communicative link between us.

One day, we entered her room and found her sitting on the floor on her night dress, which was really just an oversize shirt. Her hair was drenched with sweat, as was the shirt. Her skin was cold to the touch (Previously, we understood that we were not to touch her, and only did so now as we were concerned that she was lapsing into a coma.). Her eyes were closed tightly.

Having satisfied ourselves that she was not convulsing, we simply waited there with her. A while later, which, although a short time in real terms, we knew might have consequences in respect of her accelerated development, she opened her eyes, and spoke for the first time. She said, "I am Sine."

I can't explain it exactly, but apart from the shock of hearing her speak, her words appeared to present themselves in our minds in such a way that the derivation of the words were made apparent. That is, as she pronounced the name, we knew at once that it was Gaelic, spoken as "Sha-Nay." We knew also that the meaning of the name was "Gift of God."

As you can see in reading this account, the name when first viewed is like the mathematical term "sine", in Latin "See nay", or more commonly "Sign", as Sine/Cosign.

With all this happening at once, we were distracted momentarily. However, we then were aware that she was staring directly at us, and she then said, "I am everything, and the world will know me."

At this point, I became more aware of the nature of the dream, and whereas earlier the dream had populated its own landscape effortlessly, now it began to show signs of mechanical traction, and to lose its spontaneity. There was something about triangles, with the sine/cosine affectation, and the girl's presence perhaps reflecting two other similar instances in other parts of the world, and the power and mission that was manifest in their births.

Now awake, I sat on the edge of the bed a moment, before going to the window and looking out on a sky that turned in dark red coils above a landscape heaving with desperate people, moaning and calling to each other across a black waste of continents.

Still, the nature of dreams is one of reality cloaked in subconscious projections and dramatic, somehow plausible fictions. To sleep and to dream, to waken and yet not, and then now, here, and wherever this is.