Edit 2: The Scale in Amenthes

[alonso ramoran]

The Scale in Amenthes 
 
I. 
Her feather in a golden dish 
ascending for the heavens 
has the weight I truly want 
because below there is a crocodile head 
pulling on his gluttonous gullet 
towards the slightest waver on the scale 
for the juicy wishy-washiness of hearts. 
 
II. 
I would like my consciousness 
to be carried by a dancer's feet 
    or by six of them atop a pond 
both dancing to applauding sounds 
either from the observant dark 
    or the grove of elm wood trees 
of the people's wonder, satisfied, 
    or the cicadas' apathy. 
 
III. 
It is time that I untie my tongue 
and toss out all those wads of leather 
that I call my dress up shoes 
and buy those black and shiny Oxfords 
for some ceremony or an interview. 
 
IV. 
  There are nights ahead 
when somnolence will shuffle 
and blend those bodies of ink; 
  there are nights ahead 
when wondering will push our 
bodies into a clumsy whole. 
 
Both go hand in hand 
when rushing into campus 
with a strand of hair that's out of place 
or a button on your shirt  
oddly closer to your collar— 
when time has passed  
so suddenly; 
 
and my palms would be molting 
and rough, my body and mind 
would be remade in that exercise 
of digging with shovel and spade 
for those sparkling 
ring-worthy jewels 
the plume should outweigh. 

Edit 1: The Scale in Amenthes  
 
Ma'at's feather in a golden dish
ascending for the heavens
has the weight I truly want
because below there is a crocodile head 
pulling on his gluttonous gullet 
towards the slightest waver on the scale 
for the juicy wishy-washiness of hearts. 
 
I would like my consciousness 
to be carried by a dancer's feet 
    or by six of them atop a pond 
both dancing to applauding sounds 
either from the observant dark
    or the grove of elm wood trees
of the people's wonder, satisfied, 
    or of the cicadas' apathy. 
 
It is time that I untie my tongue 
and toss out all those wads of leather 
that I call my dress up shoes 
and buy those black and shiny Oxfords 
for some ceremony or an interview. 
 
There are endless nights ahead 
  whose somnolence will nudge 
  those boring bodies off a page; 
and there are nights ahead 
  whose wandering will push 
  our bodies into a clumsy whole.
 
Both go hand in hand 
when rushing into campus 
with a strand of hair that's out of place 
or a button on your shirt  
oddly closer to your collar; 
neglected as the sense of time. 

When I am near thirty 
I'd expect that my grip is callused and rough 
and my mind is as sharp as the edge
    of a genuine smile 
and my body's remade in that exercise 
of turning up soil with shovel and spade 
for those sparkling ring-worthy stones  
       the plume should outweigh.


Original: The Scale in Amenthes 

Does the heart outweigh the plume?
Ammit would impatiently assume.
Sooner they would cut the baggage
And lose upon a rite of passage 
A shoe to wedded birds of feather?
But see the wilted stems and golden blooms.

The faces in the observant dark,
The Black-eyed Susan’s in an elm wood park. 
Those dog days spent where offered umbrage 
And firstly clutch some thistled corsage 
The second they would trace a pond.
No more, they can get on fine apart. 

Discovered light succeeds the place of absence; 
A loosened eye among the glowing masses. 
Once would shadows cast a face in doubt 
And trudge through shadows drunk and stout 
And lumber with a heel or two. 
Now all it takes is a little practice 

To get to moving feet to quickened drummers 
As water skippers in the going summers. 
Cicadas’ chirping all around, 
And bang the skins till loudest drum astounds. 
From the silence of the theatre bursts 
Magnificent applause and mummer. 

Years to don the robe and the stole;
Somnolent nights in academia’s hold.
Bodies wander and shuffle, and to its effect 
Show the shears, at their wake, its binding neglect. 
Where the whitewater winds to the sea 
A soul piece softly poised in the shoals. 

I, for nearing the third decade,
Have dug with shovel and spade 
For gems to adorn your finger. But bones 
O bones in the soil! Well, what curious light shone 
The callused, though careless, finger a-glimmer. 
Should then the feather weigh down like a stone