Some poems, Madhu

I like it very much — but have to put it on pause from time to time, when a poem comes on through.

**

Okay, here are the other two poems from the set of three, drawn from my viewing of Engrenages, season 4 episode 9:

Still rolling

.

The spade wasn’t used, wasn’t needed, wasn’t necessary, the dice rolled,

no murder was committed, did the god know this, no, that the car

traveling through these trees would roll back the two men out of the woods

and into some new relation, clearer for being less fearful, though

he wild with hope and he sweating with regret might yet change course

as the god already knew or might know or might not if there be such

a they it she or he know, passionate impassive or nonexistent, or might

mightily decide — but the dice had rolled, the car parts the trees, departs

the woods, burial and the eventual arising of young two leafed tree sprouts

will continue though the car has left to right of view, and still, moved,

the god sees, observes, reflects, and builds, in his own extended image,

narratives of birth and eventful or eventless lives and meaningless or

on some perhaps many occasions meaningful deaths, and — who knows,

perhaps the god if any, rebirths after eventful nonevents, and thus onwards.

and this one:

Stopt

.

And then again the car, in the woods, its doors wide open like wings,

surely the god would lift the car above treetops, clouds, into some other,

some blue, some empyrean, yonder, where murder would no longer

be needed, necessary, where no dice would roll but puffballs,

tossed clouds. hither and yon without pattern or purpose, repeating

yet that eternal pattern, that this car so still might forever roll,

this breath so quiet might breathe, life under the trees and under these

stars continue, continue, one death less than the god expected, the

car wings watching to carry the spirit windward, deprived of the death,

the murder uncommitted is no murder but if it be committed, even

here late in the day in the woods, in this word, committed, then

there is murder under the high trees a few paces from the sad car, the

corpse carrier, the fortuneless car carriage, and a man who stood

upright yet walked crooked perhaps is fallen, flat, dead and truly buried.

**

Caroline Proust as police captain Laure Berthaud, in Engrenages

Please feel free to comment on any or all of this: the ideas about a greater-than-human perception, poetry, cinema, Engrenages, these particular poems…

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