No fireworks this time to see,
Few voices from the beyond to talk to,
Perhaps sometimes an extra pitch, that’s it.
Her music bothers me,
His annoying claps won’t cease.
No effect, my resistance, a small cup, perhaps?
Whose fault? No second shot to boost it now.
It is me who can’t dwell inside me.
Stand up, go outside, see the moon and the flag.
It is fresh, it is blur, but that’s all.
Back inside serious action going on.
Singing doesn’t stop, banging beats us strong,
Sound and chemistry as fellow workers.
Ongoing goodnight songs to remain awake,
Barely heard before by the asleep baby in bed.
In a continuous stream of presence,
Softly struggling to at least stay near the edge,
The delivery of the message came at last:
“It is not in the eye nor in the ear tonight”,
It is rolling down my body, in my flesh: it is Touch.
We see the moon, we know it out of reach,
We know our own, too close for us to see,
But how come can we hardly really touch,
Our hands and arms teeming with Dasein.
And it comes and goes — don’t let it go, don’t let it come.
With irony, as non-mental as it gets,
Touch inside is touching me;
how familiarly strange — how forgetful of myself!
Bringing gravity to the space-time feast
Embodied contact offers to the world,
Making length and duration energy’s concern,
Undoing in the child what culture tamed,
With the wonders of the substance,
The newborn joy of being-there, in the World’s Body.
Wearing on and off a blanket made of bulky light,
Practicing the dressing and undressing that’s at reach,
Am I living nearly all my seconds out of me? Could it be?
What a shame from up there — what a joy from down here.
The muscle-bone alliance has one thought:
They whisper “the body’s stability for real work”.
Thoughts come and go despite your holding still.
Align the weathervane; a distraction makes it spin,
You try again — again its direction you’ll find changed.
But the body, ah, the body…
Indifferent to the willingly impotent effort
That tenses distracting ignorance’s pity bow,
Its warmth remains untouched.
No difference here the tide of ideas and feelings can make.
Less than expected, indeed,
Yet more than what could have ever been conceived,
A subtle shooting star is the remembrance of our body,
No firework or great speech, just true dim light inside.