There but for ungraceful God

She walks with you
talks with you
confides in you.
As I could
if I were her
and you were you.

You call her
caress her
confess to her.
As you would
to me

If I could be
more than a sigh
If I were truth
and she a lie.


So, there
but for ungraceful God
Go I.

The rush

Here I am
wanting to make
a compromising revelation
to you
without knowing how.
Trying to figure out
a way to balance myself
on the edge of language
without risking a fall.
Treading carefully
upon beautiful sea shells
Trying my best
not to break them all.




There are, of course,
those occasions when falling off
and smashing what's under
is required:
then I go with the rush
plunge into the thrill
and let go.
But it doesn't take long
until I have to come up
to breathe in
the air of consciousness:
I think hard
of you and me - and this
till I almost blush.
Only then can I feel
absolute bliss.

There, I said it.

And that's the best use
you can give to a metaphor.
That's what poetry,
in the end,
is good for.

In cielo mi portò...

Suspension (or: travelling by airplane)

Life is somehow suspended
and a universe of possibilities
can be conceived.

We look down on the world
smiling condescendingly
feeling slightly godlike
and unreasonably powerful -
since nothing
nothing
is in our hands.

We seldom
look back.

It is the perfect time
and setting
to consider the now
and the later
to ponder about
the cans
the coulds
and the shoulds.


So suspension becomes
somewhat troubling.

Luckily there are magazines
with interesting pages
to flip through
as well as bites to grab
drinks to sip
and our own gadgets
for us to play with
absentmindedly.

Still,
the atmosphere gets heavy
with unwanted thoughts
and uncomfortable sighs.

Some start imagining
what goes on in others' lives
as if their own did not deserve
any more consideration.

Then finally
we come down to
wherever.

Instinctively
we clap our hands -
more relieved than impressed
with the pilot's good job.
A gentle chime
the lights come on
the plane has landed:
 
we can continue
to feel safely chained
and stranded.

Scarlet ribbons

Poking sticks into wasp nests

Poking sticks into wasp nests:
a dangerous hobby,
stupid and pointless
almost suicidal -

any sensible mind would conclude.



And yet...

Discard

To a used book




Readings and feelings
from nineteen seventy five

Worn and outdated
Discarded
by the very keepers
Who treasured it for years
And at some point decided
Upon its uselessness


Who would have thought
That out here
So far
Both from where they were conceived
And from where they were kept

Someone would choose to cherish them
And wept...?

Intuition

...And that's why I enjoy writing with you.
My intuition assists me
and I grasp
- be sure that I do -
the underlying truth within your words.

However,
my friend,
you do nothing,
nothing,
with the discoveries you make

And so you leave them all to waste.


Wouldn't it be better, thus,
if your intuition failed you
and I was forced to explain in clear language,
accompanied by undeniable evidence
what you claim
to have inferred?

Then you'd be unable
to stand back
and stay aloof
like a careless, clever little bird.
Then,
You'd have to react
and to respond
to the revelation of the proof.

Naked man

There is always something embarrassing
about poetry
about showing off
one's most intimate parts.




The poet is like a naked madman in the street

Someone we can't avoid staring at
but fail to understand.

Perseverance

You really wanted to come.

No thoughts, no emotions, no action

taken by others - including me - 

against your determination

could have stopped you,

my sweet little man.

And I must confess

even though I hesitated

and agreed you were not welcome

I am ever so glad

you came

to make us all happy

all anew

Because you obviously can.

Bliss

Alone
feeling forsaken
and numb
Holding on
waiting in vain
for no one

Wishing, like that character in the story,
for "something else,
not this" -
but being unable to create
another reality
where I might find peace

Life this way
the future like this
is such a painful sight,
it makes me long for that fatal kiss
despite the beauty out there,
despite what might have been
what I might miss

Mortality at last
becomes a bliss.

Queenly height

The remote worship of a woman
throwned out of their reach
plays a great part in men's lives,

but in most cases
the worshipper longs
for some queenly recognition,
some approving sign
by which his soul's sovereign
may cheer him
without descending
from her high place.




From Middlemarch by George Eliot (1871)
(originally written in prose).

Golden girl

In the summer stillness
your beautiful
feline gaze
hides mysterious thoughts
we'll never come to know.
Never was there a more confident
lovelier princess
more capable of making men's hearts
dissolve like pure snow.
Your golden silk hair
your petal-like skin
that youthful
determined
hint of a smile
the liquid blue in your eyes
and the handsome line
of your brow

would make Leonardo himself
think twice about his model
and bow.

Fate's tether

Imagine writing a line in a poem
thinking it's original
when in fact it's already been written
by somebody else
- and a proper poet at that.

Such candid wit,
that presumed accidental craft,
will seem too crafty
to anyone but you
(and if the opposite should happen
it would still be your fault).
No one will believe you,
of course:
an incredible coincidence
will never sell as much
as the pettiest,
lamest little fraud.

So, how can a minor poet
avoid such nasty inconvenience
as giving an intimate utterance
an already owned form?

Obviously, the only guaranteed way
would be to quit writing altogether.
But then he would have loved and lost...
And besides, what's left of life,
when we are no longer tied
to fate's tether?

Old fools revisited

Hands on their laps

or hanging lost

they behave nicely

trying to be good girls

and good boys

to earn that extra cookie

after tea.

They seem to concentrate

try to focus

but all they do is sit and wait

in snug acceptance

staring into space

hollowed out of hope

just waiting

in vague remembrance

of now meaningless shreds

of past life.

Ironically,

time can be so generous

when you no longer need it.



The hug

I dreamt of you last night.
It was you all right,
although the setting
- as always in a dream -
was highly unlikely.

We did not speak
But simply hugged

a long, loving
tight hug

A hug so strong
so full of tenderness and desire
it felt like a slow, tidal wave
enveloped in fire.

Lingering waste

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Imagine wanting to hold
to try and taste
such worthless lingering waste.
What value
what relevance
could such bits and pieces
hold for anybody in their right mind?


I felt just like
lingering waste
repulsively useless
good for the drain.

But there you were
giving me a second look
a first thought

with your brilliant and kind
loving
left mind.

Ego trip

I have decided to sell myself
shamelessly
happily
hopefully

here.

Christmas on my walk

Going for my usual walk -
my half hour of freedom -
I look for signs of this time of year
Something I might pick up
a specialness in the air.
Well, it's a glorious sunny day,
small hawks are hovering about
always alert.
Faithful watch dogs
are watching out for strangers
turning round and round
barking from their square of concrete ground
outside the master's mansion.
Down on the footpath
a woodlouse scuttles along
humbly minding its business.
It could be any day...


But there,
getting into the car
Not so happy people
off to visit some relative
because it's December 25th.
Tradition and religion
are just a burden they bear
their body language doesn't lie.
Here, a homeless guy
tries to sell Santa's hoods
to slightly impatient drivers
forced to wait for the green light.
On the windows, occasionally,
a baby Jesus with open arms
and an almost smug expression
competes with clumsy Santa
who is hanging
rather than climbing
the dirty building's wall.
Down the road
billboards announce
fabulous discounts
if only you're gullible enough...

And that's it,
That was Christmas on my walk:
weak gestures,
worn out symbols
lame excuses
and more useful objects
than there are uses.