{Running home without stopping. (Postcard collage from the zine That in the moon did glitter, available here.)}
{No one but you and me. (Postcard collage from the zine That in the moon did glitter, available here.)}
{One more voyage and then I am done.}
Emerging slowly from fitful slumber, astounded to find a quiet Sunday morning at my window as I pull back the curtains. Last night I was in a submarine’s hull. Last night I was sinking to the ocean's floor. Last night, I went to sea, to hear, experience, and drown in all that was epic and bleak, Kursk: An Oratorio Requiem by Australian composer David Chisholm and Russian poet Anzhelina Polonskaya. The conductor (Eric Dudley) elegantly danced, as we sunk to the floor, 118 lost souls pulling at the shoulder.
Dawn. The lights of the infinite
ship of the Universe have gone out,
the cups are drunk to the dregs
and the tyrants all beheaded—
on the executioner’s block
a trident of bird traces
and a blanket of fog.
The pages are shredded
and on the walls
a horde of shadows.
With its last beams
a moonlit child plays on the white
hills of your knees
and a beam melts in your elbow’s bend.
Doleful eyes wake,
they look and see the abyss
of the soul,
like the flotsam of that Universe,
blown ashore,
and a star that blinks in the murk,
following the ship’s masts.
Anzhelina Polonskaya
