Spaced Spaceman © dave calder, Toulouse Press 1978, Hilltop Press 1995 Spaced © dave calder, Toulouse Press 1978 Uncollected © dave calder, 1989-99  |
SPACEMAN
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spaceman 1.
i do not count the time
in this cocoon the metal is my pulse
my mind a slow murmur that echoes the soft throb
i cannot feel my flesh, my body is
as large as small as the rhythm that flows through it
wherever i go, i cannot pass outside myself
whenever i arrive, it will be the moment of departure
i do not fear either space or time
but only my self's fear in the grip of something greater
yet if it fills me, i fill it too
i am stretched immeasurably thin to the ends of space
and i do not count the time
spaceman 2.
set free from the old migrations
where will you go, exiled nomad
i will wander the stars, which are perhaps
the summer pasture of my species' time
to fill myself with the fresh wonders
i feel my memory is hungry for.
if i return, it will be to our winter
and if i do not, it will be no matter
i have few possessions, for weight is dangerous
i carry my home and death, within me, always
spaceman 3.
our meetings are warped and out of time
that we long to meet well is the nature of our love
and here between all habitable worlds and
the burning stones, in these deeps where shoals
of lifeseeds swim to new beginnings
i seek the timeplace where we can meet and join.
maybe and maybe only she at that time
is hidden on the other side of this existance
set the starship for the black hole, autopilot
i will search the place where we are dreamed
spaceman 4.
we went in close to many worlds
and the closer in we came the more
we felt a simple sense of coming
home, rather than unease at the
unknown, the foreigness of it all.
but we were not prepared to stay
and the awe we felt was somehow
more a matter of scale; and also
everything fresh has its magic.
and yes, all journeys alter you
and in more subtle ways
than you fist notice;
but the intention to return
carries the virus of your past
to the stars' end, and back
on its home ground it finds
easy ways to break out as before.
we will always come back too soon
scarred maybe but much the same
until we determine never to return
whether walking round the block or on
a lightship to the galactic rim.
spaceman 5.
how does it feel to be awake? he said
in words that were not quite of the language
i could not move my head, could not laugh,
yet it seemed so foolish, so unreal, and he
stays, serious, as if waiting for a sign,
some prophecy to affirm this resurrection,
keeps talking of cold sleep and centuries,
strange rituals.
if it should be true then i
have dreamed away lifetimes, have even
dreamed i dreamed, and never wondered
how it would be when i woke,
what face, what name, i'd bear.
this is perhaps that very dream, how can
i tell? i remember too many maybes, no
starts or conclusions, and though i recall
this corridor of clear containers from
somewhere, sometime, that is not uncommon.
i must stay calm, watchful, above all
unpreoccupied; do the best i can
to meet this dream's demands.
spaceman 6.
He had floated through the light years: it was not
as restful or as effortless as he had first imagined.
but he amused himself by coping with curious difficulties -
the minor struggles to perform small tasks, to feed, to wash,
kept him from total aimlessness. What else was there to do?
The ship, the voyage, were out of his control, even to stop
would be a slow grind down to death. That time passed for others
he knew from reports heard long after the event, and his own messages
dropped behind him as if they belonged to someone else.
The sun was behind him, he moved into his fading shadow. Entranced,
he drifted in his small space while the ship
edged into and span out of the orbits of great planets
in a time too huge, to uncentered to concern him.
Only now as he returned, he sensed the slowing, was forced
to focus on coming down to earth, and realised how unprepared
he was for living with dragging heels, and felt
the weightless years accumulate into a burden,
so leaden he was almost crushed beneath
the gravity of his situation.
spaceman 7.
How many times had he tried for a fresh start, a sign of sense,
patiently, for he had all the time that was left to him
nor did it matter to him where he was. He was going nowhere fast,
and nothing seemed to work, no procedure explained the fault;
he tapped the reset key once more, once more the screen
flickered and crazed and held, once more he read the message
the same as ever, promising nothing: Please wait ...
and again he said to himself, it's just a statement. anything
I think it means is only what I think it means. And then as before,
the screen lurched and he sat motionless staring at it flashing
like a shower of asteroids, like that the ship no doubt plunged through;
as if in a tunnel, a circular tunnel it made itself on its unguided track,
until it held once more, once more requested patience. And he was grateful
for those two words. It was, after all, all he could do.
spaceman 8.
After the new life had been launched, the booster fuel spent,
of all things her shape alone, if slightly damaged, was much as before.
They sped through time, dazed, between auto-pilot and alarm,
driven by the sound of the child, steering erratically
through the surges and shut-downs of almost ungovernable energy;
and when at last they rested it was already the future
and when they lay on the couch and asked where are we now
the ship replied: here, inside me. It spoke in the child's voice.