Five Souls

Hungarian, long-pointed, lacquerednails:
five sensibilities (Grishkin/ Blavatski,
Malevich/ Corbousier, Pushkin/Petofi,
Czar/Kaiser, Waltz/Tango) coursing through
her five gaunt fingers, pointing
at the chest of the poet.

Zap! How many souls have you?
The Chyromanter, necromancer,
at the six-pointed star,
the seven chakras, 
bending, defending, 
colliding with the ultimate soul 
in the centre of all. 


Seven chakras, 
six mogen points,
five souls.
And a partridge in a pear tree. 

And Before stage,
Back stage,
rolling with the roles,
goffmaning the encounters,
the zebra-crossing
of alterity. 

Are the souls made,

In this pile of sand,
rolling the model of earth
round and round, 
butter and plastic, 
mud and wattle,

There is an alter,
other? Altar? Other? Here?
How many others
struggling to be here and together?
"I contain multitudes",

The Swine entered the devils and drowned
in the blackest of seas.
"But we are too many".

Dearest Grishkin, find out all of me, 
seven, six, five, four, three, two, one of me,
all the chyropoints of me, 
all the necro chants of me, 
dance my epics, hymn my talks, 
find my warbling in my walk, 
but when you have found the core of me
throw it out and try again.

Was it six or five of me?
Pushkin, Kafka, Blok and Kant,
Waltzing, Swinging, sketching, painting,
all the melodies are swaying. 
As your fingers probe my soul
try to think what keeps me whole. 
Five and Six or Six and Five, 
you may waltz but I will jive,
seven, six, five, four, three, two, one:
all the souls reduced to one. 

In the end, of course, no doubt
the five souls are kept alive
by the fingernails,
and the melodies,
long vanished. 

Seven chakras

six mogen points
five souls

                                                         and a poet in a pear tree.

Ioan Davies
20. ii. 1997

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