Poem
Peter Riley
DAR ES SURIANI
DAR ES SURIANI
DAR ES SURIANI
Dug into the edge of nationsinhabiting the frictions of light
keeping the sentences locked
Until they’re needed,
keeping silence, Lebanese
wine in the cellars
Reserved for visitors
hiss of dust against white walls
the messages cased and locked
And passed from life to life in
silence, the syntax unbroken, the fruit
held from its fearful result.
Patience and fortune at rest
on a thread, a spring in the desert.
We repeat the text again and again
At first light and evening
because it is true because
it cannot be moved or pictured.
A stone breaks in the west, a bud
of dust on the horizon meaning
trouble as the sky crashes
Daily to our feet. Our transmission
is fixed and immediate, solitude and obscurity
make our beds. A stone breaks
In the east, wild truckers
scorch the horizon spreading
immense suffering and loss, the dust
Of their passage glitters on the floor.
We scoop it up and blend it with
goat fat to make a binding paste
For the books in the library
that we can’t read. We bury
the dead, they haven’t got time.
What else can we do? What is
left of us after they have all gone
is a body faithful from its centre
Further than it can see
as we toil at common tasks
absorbed in our procedures
Hardly aware of the uncertainty
and ecstasy hoarded under the line
the fuel in the cellar that
Fires our fate, to maintain
beneficence without object and virtue
without enemy and cry in the desert
For he is mine and I am
his again and again in
love and war. At night
The stars screen our orders
and the small fire in the clay room
burns prepositions. Edge-life
Squats, guardian tomb, all days
positioned and engaged, ensuring
that the only possible result
Be the exactly possible outcome
as the flesh line is held straight
and true here by the equinox, and whatever
Speed kills cells or wastes
earth with excitement anywhere, here
it is altered, it is given
Back before it can be loaded.
Heart levels cross at night
in the stone shed alone with love’s answer,
True loves at war,
mine and yours. For we meet, serve,
and retire for good, as you know.
© 1997, Peter Riley
From: Snow has settled [...] bury me here
Publisher: Shearsman Books, Plymouth
From: Snow has settled [...] bury me here
Publisher: Shearsman Books, Plymouth
Peter Riley
(United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, 1940)
Peter Riley must now count as one of our ‘senior poets’, with a large back-catalogue of publications, but he occupies a strange position in contemporary English letters, due in no small part to the sheer range of his work. In some respects, this range, and his interests, rule him out of contention for a number of critics, and it would be fair to say that he probably annoys as many critics from ...
Poems
Poems of Peter Riley
Close
DAR ES SURIANI
Dug into the edge of nationsinhabiting the frictions of light
keeping the sentences locked
Until they’re needed,
keeping silence, Lebanese
wine in the cellars
Reserved for visitors
hiss of dust against white walls
the messages cased and locked
And passed from life to life in
silence, the syntax unbroken, the fruit
held from its fearful result.
Patience and fortune at rest
on a thread, a spring in the desert.
We repeat the text again and again
At first light and evening
because it is true because
it cannot be moved or pictured.
A stone breaks in the west, a bud
of dust on the horizon meaning
trouble as the sky crashes
Daily to our feet. Our transmission
is fixed and immediate, solitude and obscurity
make our beds. A stone breaks
In the east, wild truckers
scorch the horizon spreading
immense suffering and loss, the dust
Of their passage glitters on the floor.
We scoop it up and blend it with
goat fat to make a binding paste
For the books in the library
that we can’t read. We bury
the dead, they haven’t got time.
What else can we do? What is
left of us after they have all gone
is a body faithful from its centre
Further than it can see
as we toil at common tasks
absorbed in our procedures
Hardly aware of the uncertainty
and ecstasy hoarded under the line
the fuel in the cellar that
Fires our fate, to maintain
beneficence without object and virtue
without enemy and cry in the desert
For he is mine and I am
his again and again in
love and war. At night
The stars screen our orders
and the small fire in the clay room
burns prepositions. Edge-life
Squats, guardian tomb, all days
positioned and engaged, ensuring
that the only possible result
Be the exactly possible outcome
as the flesh line is held straight
and true here by the equinox, and whatever
Speed kills cells or wastes
earth with excitement anywhere, here
it is altered, it is given
Back before it can be loaded.
Heart levels cross at night
in the stone shed alone with love’s answer,
True loves at war,
mine and yours. For we meet, serve,
and retire for good, as you know.
From: Snow has settled [...] bury me here
DAR ES SURIANI
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