WHAT THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST SAY TO ME
The valley is a million year old
Formula: meaning, what is a poem?
The last chance creation is this.
An upheaval, a certain process.
The ending of a substratum
Replete with faults, depressions.
Perhaps it is the oil of the future?
A sequence of beeps and silences.
The seismographic landscape
Is suffering all of us who live there.
Geological time and its sunbeams
Are travelling in myriad ways.
Everywhere industrial processes
Are forming combinations.
Brown figures are stooping down
In the dusk resemble Van Gogh´s
Potato eaters. Vast cycles
Of nature are re-enacted
What is flowing through the littered
Valley voices in or out of the Spring rain?
SNAIL
Nature´s stain is also the snail
With its broad back. All his luggage
Is included in this crystal sculpture.
I prod at him. For a moment
He retracts his head.
I pass on, then look back for a minute.
He is still there
The great north sun is beaming.
His shell is chill pink.
The great north chill sun declines into the pink clouds.
Whispy as horses tails
Strung across the snail´s entrails.
THÜRINGEN WALD
The hill is over the hill.
The sun is over the horizon.
The landscape´s stillness
Is a well-sculpted end vision.
There are no farmer´s left
But still there is produce.
There are no bank´s left
But still there is commerce.
Even if Hell is retracted
The rest is still coming on.
Even is annihilation is imminent
There will still be a discount.
In Manebach the choir
Sings the songs once
Composed in Erfurt
By a hell-faced child
In Arnstadt. The dappled
Organ music is played
In the Bachkircke:
Sunlight in the square.
Paul Murphy
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