***
The Whole for the Part
Javier told me that perhaps it would be important
to measure oneself against the poem sometimes.
He put it like this: measuring oneself against the poem.
Forget the book.
Measure yourself against the poem.
The book, in that sense, does not help.
The book, in that sense and in others, does not help either.
The book preserves meaning over time.
And the poem, in contrast,
The book, he said, lengthens and allows us to lengthen within it.
And to lengthen is also to lengthen away.
That is to say, there will always be another moment, later,
to say what must be said.
Or not even that.
Because what you want to say does not need
to be said by the poem.
Because it is said by the book.
It does not say it in the poem
It says it in the book.
That is, it is said in the whole.
And it does not need the part.
The whole for the part.
The whole for the parts.
The part is not important because what matters is the sum of the parts.
I haven’t told Javier anything about the book.
He has enough with his own thing.
Yet I have bought myself a castle.
The castle is fine, it has its parts too,
some ruined, others — oh, surprise — still standing.
The castle is almost a house, but not.
A likeness is never the same as the thing.
I enjoy strolling through my castle: climbing the tower,
going down to the catacombs. Go up, go down.
What I like most are its long corridors lined with panoplies.
I walk along them as if I had medieval bodyguards.
I have never slept in my castle. I don’t want to.
They say there is a ghost.
I like ghosts in small doses.
I prefer the castle to the ghost.
The castle for the ghost.
Javier told me that perhaps it would be important
to measure oneself against the ghost sometimes.
He said it like that and I don’t want him to think I’m a coward.
Night, in that sense, does not help.
Night tends to lengthen as well
and, above all, anything is susceptible
to seem like a ghost in the night.
Even Javier is susceptible in that sense.
The castle endures in time.
At least more than a house. At least more, ha.
What would happen if I hear strange noises in the night?
If, frightened, I wander through the castle seeking something?
What for?
If upon stepping into the armory courtyard, lit by the moon,
I find myself face to face with a ghost?
What would happen, Javier, eh, what would happen,
what would happen, hypothetical Javier, in this case?
What would happen if the ghost measures
what I measure and weighs what I weigh?
Would I perhaps be brave and face
its waving presence of silver?
Or would I run away in fear
while the ghost pursues me
through the chambers of my castle
and the panoplies watch me impassively?
This ghost business is terrifying, Javier.
I don’t know what you think of all this,
although I know you already have enough with your own things.
The good thing about measuring oneself against the ghost
is that when dawn comes the ghost disappears.
But once you’ve measured yourself against the ghost,
once you have taken its measure,
or had yours taken with it,
if the ghost offers you its true essence,
if it notices you tremble and your heart peeks from your mouth,
what does it matter if it disappears?
By the way, Javier, the poem keeps lengthening
and I wonder if it has surpassed the limit of the poem.
If it is a poem.
And not a book.
Where is the limit, in that sense?
The poem, I say, the ghost, will disappear with the day
wush
will fade into the air forever.
Wush, wush.
Wush, wush, wush.
Javier? Javier? Javier?