Wind-horse: on the notation of a traditional Tibetan ritual, Scattering Lungta (lit. wind-horse, coloured paper printed with prayers)
for Tsering Woeser
. . .
in long grass
a flattened prayer-wheel
wind
takes
a warning
it takes a warning
from
snow-capped mountains
resistance
flexes
in
long grass
rises in the hand
wind-horse
the intersection of familiarity/hope
deep
in muscle-memory
. . .
hoof/prints
on the snow-capped mountains
paper or cotton
floating on the clear lake
at the intersection of the road
it takes a while to find
the tracks
looking back from a checkpoint
a shattered
prayer-wheel monastery
or patterns in long grass
flattened
by the wind
. . .
you face the dawn of your Beijing window
raise your arm
in a wave/pointing
until the coloured pieces of paper
fly
like flowers or
pale flames
as the rough mane of the mountain horse
fringes the wind
tumblers click into place
beads
fall
slowly
impossible for me to follow
the curve of your arm
. . .
I turn away to approach you
through abstraction
I approach you through this gesture
but the distance is too far
I turn away to abstraction
. . .
in the hand of the notator
your gesture scatters
the gateway to the body
is a broken line
its schema
dislocated from its familiar lexicon
tears the tongue from my mouth
unhinges my
left arm hanging down loosely
. . .
here is a corner
a hitch
bracketed by formulas
for a metaphorical horse
pauses angular or spiralled
feet are in open fourth
with the right foot in front
torso has a slight twist to the left
right arm rotates inward
my eye still argues with these
symmetries
the body is disassembled
is restated as geometric splinters
feet organised
into columns
ankles circles
. . .
is it possible to cross
this distance
twist out with the right arm swinging
to the midpoint between shoulder
and fingertip
what starts from the hand
drops back to the ground
impossible / not to
reach across / not to rise to
ghosts of schemas realised
as coloured squares of paper
as the depth of the mark
is distant from experience
. . .
I turn away to abstraction
in the hand of the notator
your gesture scatters
the gateway to the body is a broken line
but my heart has not changed
the wish-fulfilling eye pulls between axes
to find a gravitational field
prayer flags streaming across
the exposed plateau
where nostrils flare red
and a jewelled black horse shakes its hoof
. . .
here is a corner
a hitch
the notator's hand falters
erases
her pencil marks build up on the page
is it possible to meet
'the poet of you and the poet of me'
you write
twist out with the right arm swinging
to the midpoint between shoulder
and finger tip
chest open and facing high
impossible / not to
reach across / not to rise to
. . .
but if
movement broken along alien axes
constellates
as reaching your hand across
the broken ridges of translation
prayer the deep distance
poetry of the same echo
as a flying mane
a rotating wrist
the arc of a jewelled neck
as the golden shoe of the horse
skybound
eludes its nets/is impossible
as your hand passes through
the broken ridge
as your skin blossoms
the smell and heat of its petals
. . .
the eye gazes after the hand
its scattering
pieces of coloured paper
at the intersection of the road
a gesture towards
possibility / of a way back
to the snow-capped mountains
left arm hanging down loosely
feet are in open fourth
torso has a slight twist to the left
right arm rotates inward
the elbow leads the way
chest open and facing high
you face the dawn of your Beijing window
raise your arm
in a wave
pointing