Ipsi Dixit

Ipsi Dixit

The girl with the flowers in her hair
Sits by the big open window in the hallway.
The flowers died on all hallows day,
Sacrificed in memory of the olden days,
The flowers withered and faded away.
The lilies collapsed and the roses are drooping.

The bombs fell on London,
The bombs fell, wounds gouged into collective memory.
The bombs fell on Sarajevo,
The bombs fell, small children watching then, will remember as they grow old.

The girl sits with yesterday entwined in her hair, thinking of air raids.

In the dance hall the dancers warm up for their routine
Their bleeding feet bound tight, pointille.
The stage is set, the crowd awaits
The tour de force, forged on disciplined footing.

A stream of strangers drift past her feet, encased in sensible shoes,
Like petals adrift on the water, each leaf a swirling new pattern of life
Bright and crisp and new in the morning, new every morning.
She reaches up and touches her hair
The dance is pauses, the ship is boarding.

And the newscaster reads his reports from the screen
Africa and AIDS he says.
And Bono in his shades, he says.
Then businessmen and corporate scheming and
Businesswomen and this years dreaming
And local color and touching story, and
Take long walks and
Don’t forget to change the world tonight.
Thanks for listening and goodnight.

And she sits there and ruminates on presidents long dead,
And books over-read,
And heroes and their downfall,
All the while,
Dead flowers in her hair,
And a note in her pocket that reads:

“I shall walk into the roaring torrent of life
With stones in my pocket
And lose my bearings in the roiling waves”

For the rush of existence in her ears is so loud it threatens her with drowning.



* she herself has said it.