3.4.08

Evora




In Evora there is a church
and the church was once a mosque
and the mosque was once a church
and the church was once a temple
in the time of the Romans

Behind the altar there is a false tomb
and beneath a Christian name there are thousands of years
of roots writhing through stone
and water echoes up vertebrae which must have been steps
and its light is the juice of emeralds

Now, consider the well that is my throat
and the pool that is my chest

What does one do when a well has been capped
for so many generations?
Is water safe in the stomach?

How did I become addicted to a self-imposed periphery,
its tithes, its prick and its poison?
Can all of this be unlearned in one generation,
one season, one summer?


My grandfathers and grandmothers
and their grandparents meet for the first time in me
I carry them to familiar places
I am their hands, their thighs, their nose,
their eyes, their lips, their teeth, their tongue

How did I become addicted to a self-imposed periphery,
its tithes, its prick and its poison?
Can all of this be unlearned in one generation,
one season, one summer?


I am the voice and the body now
and all that is closed will be opened
and all that hurts will be repaired
and all that sleeps without dreaming will be green again

In Evora there is a church
Inside the church there is a tomb
and inside the tomb there is a cistern
Inside the cistern there is water
and it’s light is the juice of emeralds



Evora [#4]
© 2000 Fammerée


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“Evora” appears in Lessons of Water & Thirst,
a book of poems by Richard Fammerée.

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Richard Fammerée
fammeree@att.net
director@universeofpoetry.org


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To experience the live performance of Evora
with music composed by the artist, please visit:
http://www.reverbnation.com/fammerée
and listen to selection #1.

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Photograph by Susan Aurinko

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1 comment:

Wencke Braathen said...

RIchard, I could write a whole novel from this song. You know it is my favorite, I don't know how many times I've heard it performed.
As a poem it stands on its own, as a journey through generations, through spinal chords of cellular memory, in search of the water the color of juice of emeralds.
Thank you for the imagery.

Wencke.