Mountain Song

Wherever I go
The ocean within me I carry.
I place my hand above my chest
Feel the rhythm of his waves
As they swell and lap
Frothing against an inward shore
Singing a sublime harmony
And splashing droplets of salt
Upon my face
Wetting my eyes, lips, and cheeks
And adorning my dark hair
With white, crystal stars.

Oh, such a divine tremor!
Oh, such a feeling of power!
Oh, such a soothing laughter!
And it keeps growing
Higher, wider, deeper, more spacious
Yet always in stillness supreme.

I wait for the storm,
The tempest that will surely blow
And rise from below the water.
I then walk the shore
To stumble upon my soul
Scattered,
Seashells and pearls
And strangest creatures,
Beautiful monsters
Sparkling on golden sand
And amid dark rocks.

With golden threads I weave them
Wreaths and necklaces,
Wristlets and anklets,
And with them I adorn
My body and my dark hair.
With my hammer of stars
I gather my strength,
Smash the pearls
Breaking them open
Like moons dying
Into the white of night
And then pour their juices
Into my cup of wine,
Or straight into my soul,
Into my darkest well,
And with their moist dust
I daub and smear
My lips and eyelids,
The painting of my heart.

Ah, this drunken sobriety!
Ah, this divine madness!
Ah, this wine of wines!
The world has never shun
Clearer, brighter, and more beautiful;
Never has so many good things
Stand before my eyes.
The gray cloud of unreason
In which I drowned and drowned
Is spent and undone
And now there stretches
Like above a desert
An azure
Clear, still, sublime.

The man that I am kisses
Your forehead, oh childhood,
Oh playful woman whose
First and last name is life,
Now run, play, and laugh.
Above all, bless the fall
That breaks your limbs,
Bless the thorn
And the serpent’s fang
That pierce into your heart,
Bless the world’s ugliness and hardship
And with your divine touch
Will them, affirm them into goodness.

Bless, bless and never curse,
Oh child who are my heart,
Oh woman who are my womb,
Oh man whose relentless will
Inexorably drives suns, moons, and stars
To orbit and turn, rush like waves,
A ring in the universe of my eyes,
An ocean within an ocean
Living in my heart.

Written in an outburst on the 19^th of May 2012, sometime in the morning while sitting under the sun, listening to the birds singing and to the river roaring, and contemplating the green trees’ blooming spring-lush. Rendered here with minor changes.

Rhyming Wine

His verse, a fountain
Of dark wine, frothing white as
It pours out, and rhymes.

~

Drunk is the poet
So beware, nymphs and maidens,
Of his lilac rhyme.

Image of Heart

A wheat stalk swaying
At the gentle stroke of wind
As summer sun sets.

~

The scattered whispers
Return, a harvest of stars
Surging white-still, dawn.

Shade Weaver

Like fragile whispers
My soul I strew, veils luring
To heights ever new.

~

Dewing on your face
Pure and soft, my sighs, a call,
Rising from my heart.

The Dream

In a dream a farmer came to the tree of my soul, a lopper in his hand.

No sooner did he sit under its shade contemplating its growth than he stood up again and started clipping away at branches and leaves.

Inquiring as to what he was doing, he replied, ‘The weak and dry branches take away the sap from those that are strong and coming into bloom, and the branches growing down near the earth keep the whole from rising up to the heights, from becoming lithe and beautiful while bathing in air and light.

Thus spoke the farmer as he placed the lopper in my hand, then went along his way with his words still echoing in my ear, ‘Trim away at the edges of your soul, at her roots and heart as well, channel your energy and give shape to your growth. Do it out of love, but let your whole heart and entire strength be in each stroke.

Truth & Error

We are always oblivious of just how much error is incorporated into our truth, of just how much error, as a brush of shadows and dark colours, helps paint our truth brighter and hence makes it more beautiful and captivating — worth following and for its sake enduring and suffering. Truths are the catchwords of life through which she breaks us open again and again, more and more, so that we laugh time and again and finally baptize ourselves as wise fools.

Scattered Leaf – 52

For a long time I’ve been searching through and gazing at erotic pictures and paintings but, somehow, all of them, for all their softness, seemed vaguely lacking, unable to invoke my deepest depths. Today something that has been growing within me since forever finally took root, a most ancient rift finally healed, and I came to the realization that, for all their beauty and lure, these erotic representations are devoid of the warmth and breath of love — their beauty is hollow. None will ever measure up to my heart’s desire; none will ever touch me in that most holy place. Thus my search was over, and with it a tide of light shun from my face: my dark wells, my deserts, and my heights.

More and more I become ripe for my solitude, more deserving of its presence.