Three Poems by Bremer Acosta




Poetry


 


a story hardly remembered 

snow cracked under my boots once,
I remember, – when was it? ’88 or ‘98
my cheeks paled to numbing, tingling,
hairs encrusted under redwood breezes,
I – or was it we – we saw a car, metallic,
diesel guts spilled on a snow bed, rotten,
roots wetted around its frame, spiraling –
ice melted on my eyelids, I – or was it we –
we climbed inside and warmed past winter,
removed our gloves, our hats that solidified,
our hands reddened, fingers stiffed together,
will we lose them? Oh god, I’m only ten, I
read stories about frostbite, what it would
do, but after a moment I could bend them,
feel my bloodless bones begin to sweat and
we sat in the passenger seat together, or was
that me, only me, I can’t remember,
and we imagined ourselves
drifting, driving on, on and on,
hands pressed on a dashboard on
where twigs and blue eggs curled,
and we lazed inside, on and inside,
and sunk tread on a blizzard unseen –
and on that day that moment we dug
a white sky, in snows upon dreams,
dreams on dreams on dreams
 

silence and sound

only when I’m quiet for a time
when the blood pulp of my ears
stills inside this skull’s sinews
ceasing that shallow pulse
do sounds begin to abound
secreting shapelessness into
arranging melodies in silences,
were they always here, apart / together,
emptiness, time, lingering between verbs
under their tones, under their undertones,
does silence stay the same of all scenes,
on pauses, on meditations,
on old sitting rituals of no-mind,
chewing on formless thoughts,
on unsayings
on ungestured being,
do voices seek to proclaim identity
to strain for a beacon in the void,
to immortalize and fail to in the flux,
when the end of noise is to be alone
when we must only listen and wait
until quietude collapses
mirages of ourselves
until mystic solitude blurs
silence back into sound
 

Ghosts of Languages

Am I the future-tense of Germanic tribes or
an Anglo-Saxon aftermath, an afterglow of a
battle-axed diction, now set to tongue out words,
to pray to a Thor in Thursday, to kneel at an altar
of diction and resurrect the ghosts of languages?

What mystical signs weave into my words,
into the monkish Latin of bronze bells, into
the chimes of font, from anointed scribes?

Is there violence in my thoughts that
give rise to an Old Norse rebirth, that
stresses me into a fracture of vowels
and leaves me hung up on dried bark,
waiting to mature from the sun’s heat?

Have I thanked William the Conqueror
for his court with English or should he be
thankful to me for my déjà vu during his reign?

And does the language of vitality
still linger inside its clichés? What
did people think when Shakespeare
first broke the ice?

Does language beget language,
and suffix a cooperative word?
Is a dictionary an organization
or a restriction, or a beehive in
time of development and usage?

How do I know whether this
verb will cling to its meaning,
and the questions will be seen
and perceived as I think them?

Like, what’s my future, you know?
Am I just gonna’ be just passing
this word,
these words,
all these words,
down
down
down
the line, till, it’s all like, going to
my neighbors and children and shit?
 
 
Bremer Acosta graduated from Stevenson University with a Bachelor’s degree in English Language and Literature. He is currently pursuing a graduate degree in Creative Writing and Publishing at the University of Baltimore.