Robert Vivian :: Essay by the Black Sea

Makes way for other voices, other waves and yearnings, other seas and horizon all the way to Russia and essay out of time moving through time and every molecule of memory, even raindrop, even cursive of a crumpled letter, full of wonder and tea in a tulip-shaped glass filled to the rim and essay that wants to try, that seeks to sing, to touch, to hold, to understand, oh, so gently in wandering sense, each word a velvet petal or flower stooping to bless its words with colors, red or yellow, blue or rainbow and essay by the Black Sea not so very black, but green, green fading into blue, into sky, into Russia and all the poetry swinging and drowning in my blood, all the lost and crazy ones, my brothers, my sisters, arm in arm and barefoot on the page and so alive only a voice can say them in honeyed song good for ache and word and love nest made of nectar and cypress and trickling sand, toppled brick and mortar and waves again like pages licked with foam and I an essay declaiming, I an essay becoming the what-not and the want-not and the closer be my beloved whimper and friend, Kadir again coming to help me through my ignorance as I walk the streets of Samsun looking for something, looking for flowers in headlong quest, foremost errand of my entire spendthrift life—and the Turkish girl telling me the story of her village where the most important game is to see who can find the most flowers walking down the mountain and then essay on the rocks and stones and dusty footpaths following her, essay in the sound of sheep and sandals so worn their leather hearts can only take so much, crushed beneath again and again but somehow not defeated, not waylaid, craggy weeds and brush and essay walking down the side of a mountain in Turkey lagging behind, essay my heart following the girl to her village like a wild dog and essay in her hands, her fingertips, this love, this love, and prose overthrowing its traces to run after and be inside her seeking, essay my flower, essay my petal, this holy lilting for I am prince of the apple core and sugar cube filling with tea and the flute separated from the reed bed lifting its notes high above the mountain, essaying this song to kingdom come and back again, blossoming.