by Sam Rasnake
Like the hot air balloon with its brief
and staggered flight before falling
to the ground in such a deadly heap.
Horse hooves pounding the river's
smoky shallows, each furtive blast
a world of probability against plague.
Wild geese over the city's rape to ruin
in the silent rage that only distance gives.
Or naked bodies, their torches lit, in a run
through a thick wood of midsummer mist,
while the nightingale's song, much older
than time, unfolds its deepest pleasure.
Vows to silence, then an ache for the real,
for the impenetrable cold that defies the hand,
for the impossible gift of a restless spring.
— originally published in Poets / Artists, and reprinted in Cinéma Vérité (A-Minor Press, 2013)
All rights reserved.
– Andrei Rublev (1966), Andrei Tarkovsky, dir.
A powerful film - but then that's true of every work by Tarkovsky.
I'm grateful to the vision of Didi Menendez - as fine an editor as I've ever encountered. The piece was originally published in Poets / Artists.
The poem is included in Cinéma Vérité, a collection of ekphrastic pieces focused on films - published in Autumn 2013 by A-Minor Press. Special thanks to Nicolette Wong, Walter Bjorkman, & Eryk Wenziak for believing in the ms.