Wednesday, May 27, 2009

for jorge luis borges


for jorge luis borges
with relief, with humiliation, with terror,
he understood that he also was an illusion,
that someone else was dreaming him…
from the circular ruins
yr poems & stories, borges, tore open
spaces i might more thoroughly explore;
made me dream a sorcerer’s dream, pried
me open to supernatural purpose, pointed
me to treasure in dialectic vision, made
me dare dream up a writer, myself anew/
renewed, in minute entirety. u snatched
back from the dead, back from the
world’s ruin & absence, bereft of color,
syllable & nuance, the remains of my
aborted verse; served them up to me in
the incoherence & vertigo of dreamstuff
& like some fiery multiple demiurge
made me look upon them again & again,
take them back into myself & refashion
them with my spirit hands, making rope
of them as if they were sand, coining
them as if they were wind, penning them
as if they were truly mine. i kneaded
them into poemshapes & breathed into
them, like ori┼čanla, the arch divinity,
nurturing my deformed creations back to
health with the same love & veneration
bestowed on my few fiddlefit &
fettlefine. i watched them all come alive
& grow & knew as u knew that in this
same way i was wrought; in this same
way i was made.

© Joseph McNair; 2009

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