Saturday 7 December 2019

Frans Budé: 'The Sifting of the Light'

Frans Budé
The sifting of the light
Poems on a work by Fons Lemmens


The ever-continuous line, without
intertwining aware of its infinity. 
No hustling, only the acceptance of time,
reflecting among all the heavenly bodies.
A line that raises itself and bends, descends then
is present ever again before and behind
the mists of the smothering light. And then once more
reaches the sky and is reflected back to where we are.


In an abandoned outdoor pool small red flags
unitedly moving to the rhythm of the summer breeze.
A while later shadows lengthen, stretching out comfortably
and uninhibitedly. Imperturbable the endlessly
turning wheel of time. Not one single time a contrary
creaking. And us? We are contemporaries together,
abandon ourselves, promise ourselves a new day,
pay attention to every tick of the clock, or pretend to.


Surfaces in their geometry breathe inaudibly –
they radiate. Their strength unceasingly changes
our thinking, moves inquisitively inwards,
stretches out like a taut surface of water. It comes
and disappears, becomes present without moving.
Nothing changes and yet it does. That is what there is,
what there is not, and gradually acquires meaning:
like breathing unexpectedly mists a window pane.


How skilfully you bent the steel into tight lines,
gave the words of the poet a warm spot
      In a spectrum of diversity / time runs together –
and the surrounding park watches appeasingly too.
It’s said: At night the sculpture gets up
and only returns at break of dawn. In the refined
morning light the work contentedly takes its place
once more, prouder than ever on the rim of the day.


So deliberately you sift the light, allow it to
descend in batches along a vertical path. You look
up, down, grant it access to your work.
In spheres of unprecedented brilliance you lead it
to the very spot where it does not fall apart, oh no,
you bring it to life where you have brought it,
so close and intimate than I want to  walk through it,
into the farthest fields, towards the well.


Continually seeking form and colour you grow
away from that which exists, abandon yourself to a new
song of the wind. Nothing can hold you back, no
hesitation about the path to be taken when you close your eyes,
create a new world. That, with Rilke’s Panther,
you can capture the world anew and accommodate it
in line and colour. Hear the animal tell stories of beginning
and end, of what breathlessly descends from old dreams.

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