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Wednesday, 19 October 2011

300 The Ascensions William Pillin

300 The Ascensions William Pillin

You, Marc Chagall, requisite be expert to unequivocal us

what was cremated in Thor's ovens,

you who were unfailingly drawing ascensions.

The ascensions of accounting violinists,

the ascension of white-gowned brides,

the ascension of beside yourself donkeys,

of lovers, of bouquets, of golden cockerels,

ascensions dressed in the clair-de-lune.

O this extreme

out of shanties and cellars!

the folk spirit climbing

straight trickery alphabets,

straight magical facts,

to a purposeless in bluest realms.

The ascension

(from sewers, dives, back-alleys)

of folk-songs to the new moon,

to the chow down of lights,

to the silences of Friday day's end...

... and fast

in the repose of steppes

a thin column of vapors climbing

and following that

no better-quality ascensions

* * *

No better-quality ascensions!

Morally stone chimneys

boringly clinging

to the earth of Poland.

Not even a brand name saying:

Into the Zhids

en-masse ascended