Voyage ©

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written April 3rd, 2010

Listen here for my reading of “Voyage.”

 

In the silent interval between two storms,
A somber ship cuts the weight of rippleless waters.
See where the wake divides, and a trough of calm
Quietly foams between the here and gone.
Now we succumb to night and become the pulse
Of a slow and primitive slumber of affection.
In the cavernous room with the crystal chandeliers,
Whose constellations glitter in the stillness,
Taste how the dark adagio swells the air,
And fills the lungs with the antidote to sorrow.
When the colorless ship slides through the lolling ocean.
Feel how we glide once more through the heavy splendor,
Our veins dilating in the exhalate.
Hear how the song elongates through the night,
As the vast ship slips below the smooth, black waves.

Mute Rendezvous ©

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written January 8th, 2009

Listen here for my reading of “Mute Rendezvous.”

 

The loud, but little sounds of the replicas
Slide down and away after midnight,
And the silence becomes like an expanding
Projectile, softly exploding outward
As the calmest violence. The masonry crumbles,
The steel and glass dissolve.  Then, out of the clatter
Of the endless city, comes a larger form of endlessness,
The last intimations of those mortal souls,
Whose impulse is to be forever lost.
Here is where one meets no one,
Where the being without organs
De-bones the flesh, and leaves a slow,
Streamer-like fluttering, unscrolling in the breath.
The time in the clock unravels, like smoke in the wind,
And the haunting completes itself as a cavernous yawn.
It is quiet.  You may speak now.  It is allowed.
But here, in this blank, you may find
You have nothing to say.

Nocturnal Undoing ©

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written October 7th, 2007

Listen here for my reading of “Nocturnal Undoing.”

 

Although the enfeebled stars and the waning moon
Are scarcely visible, they still possess,
Through the intercessions of enumerable
Tiny threads, the potency to pull us from our sleep.
Now they have set us to wandering in a realm,
Which we suddenly realize is characterized
By something much more than simple lack.
The threads are actually attached to places
Buried deep inside the body, places unreachable
From the exterior, and hence, beyond the balm
Of any comfort.  We wake.  And the night, an agency
Of reparation, enlivens its hold on us, so that the Un-
Forces — unconscious, unreachable, unlit —
Bring us under the influence of those enfeebled stars
And that waning moon, where we may grieve, at last,
In a complete darkness, exterior and interior,
For the uninhabited husks of the undead.
How many times have we passed through the dirt
And darkness having surrendered our bodies
To these lost ones?  We die.  We live.  We sleep.
We are awake.  And the many forms, which shuffle
Through our bones show by these threads that tug us
Towards the future that birth and being were never
Ours to own. . .