To the redmoongrabber

How gratifying,
my dear,
that you should enjoy wandering
through this forest of woe
that you feel compelled to decipher
these intricate lines
that I sew
once in a while.
How lustfully exciting
to feel the caressing presence
of your eyes all over my body

(my skin is made of words,
you know...)


But on these strolls
of your wise, ethereal fingers
on the surface and the depths
of my powerless being
perhaps you don't see
as much as you think you do.
Control is just as vital to me
as it is to you.
However,
the utmost pleasure
comes from yielding,
not from holding sway.


And grabbing,
by the way,
makes a lot of sense.
It all depends
on the pair of hands.

Twenty per cent

The scenery
–however charming–
had a touch of melancholy triteness to it,
moon above and sea below.
It matched the inevitable presence
of clichés in our words,
I know.


« I'd say 80% of my relationship is fine.
That’s why I hold on, you see? »
You just smiled,
seemed to understand.
But teased me right away
about your trip the next day:
you’d be flying a plane to Brazil…
wouldn’t I like to go?


Tempting.
But let’s take a train
somewhere else instead,
so I stay down on earth
and you're not in control –
I should have said.


And as we kissed politely
for a second
there was an accidental touch
of breast and chest.
Then we parted,
of course.
And I was left to fantasize
about the rest.

In the back seat

Someone's driving
I don't know who.
I only hope
This trip will take me
somewhere new.

There is a mirror
where I could see
Their bright glance
And find out
Who they might be.
But outside
the racing landscape
is mesmerizing,
so I avert
the truthful eye
that criticizes me.

And here I go
Unawares
of my own fate...

As long as someone cares
to be my keeper,
Being a hostage
cannot bury me
any deeper.

Not lovers yet

We are not lovers yet

But I feel as if
we've already
gone that far.
We have only just met
And somehow
you've stolen
the key to my heart.


We are not lovers yet

But act accordingly.
Our minds are truly set
however deceptive
this whole thing
can be.

Two adolescents

looking only ahead
anxious for pleasure
of body
not mind
careless of what
they leave behind.

We are not lovers yet

But we might as well
be totally blind.

The beast

I normally drive myself,
you say.

But this time
It seems
I've got on a train
with a mind of its own.
And in the meantime
your words
of longing and lust
are hurting like spears
piercing through places
I did not remember.

I am curious,
you say.
Anxious to see
where we will be taken,
eager to know
what pleasures await.

Well, the train,
as you call it,
seems more like a beast
to me,
given our state.

It is wild and mad
mighty and huge
and it's speeding straight
into an abyss
that we hope
might be
a refuge.

This beast
at once
ancient and young
has the force of a fate.
And we are both
riding on top
holding the bait.

Lonely lost sad

I feel so lonely here


without you


in my life


I feel so lost here


without your eyes


as my light


I feel so sad here


without your words


as my guide






Do you think we could lose control?

End of story

...

it should never have begun
this story.
We should not have dived in
Head first
into this dark well of emotions
I am sorry.


Yes,
I'll take your hand
and let you guide me to the light
even though up there
at the top
we'll be blinded
by sight.

Walking chaos

You walked in
Like the rest of them
And I barely noticed.

But then you spoke
- was it a clever question
or a sharp remark? -
and your voice
(I did not know then
what I know now)

struck me

somehow.

There was also something
in your shy
but penetrating look
a radiance
a spark
an unexpected tie
that caught me
on your hook

as you are doing now.

The end

What if I told you
I am finally ready
After all this time?

What if I told you
I'm yours, take me, be mine?

What if I confronted you now
With all you have said
And demanded "live up to your words!
Or else I'll be dead?"

"Happy new year" -
You smile and say.
- "May you enter well in 2017".

So, that's it. I'm done.
No good to hope or pray.
The next river I see
I shall throw myself in.

Happy news from Jesus

A young man approached me
in the street
I have happy news from Jesus!
He said.
And I told him
I was into Buddhism
just so he'd leave
me alone.

But later
I regretted
not having discussed
the matter
with him,
not having asked
looking straight
to his face:
Is religion not merely a solace
a comfort
a refuge
where we hide
from disgrace?

Are we any happier
for having had prophets around?
Is our life on Earth
with its wars
and hatred and waste
any better?
Are hungry children
any fatter?




A prophet is a kind of poet
to me
so I believe in the former
as much as I believe in the latter.

Writing

a form
of dreaming awake
in which we accomplish
all our desires
and more

whilst leaving
a trail of experiences,
thoughts
and feelings
to which we can come back
at any time
for the sheer pleasure
of remembering
and reliving
our life.

Read me

I may be an open book
But a book needs a reader
to make sense from it.

I may pour out words
in the hope that my longing
to be understood
will no longer make sense.

I may voice them out loud
to make sure they are heard
should the reader
be looking away.

I may not have much to say
other than the turmoil
ramping inside
tearing me wildly
with ease.

I may be a crude,
naked, nasty sight
You'd rather
not contemplate

but bear with me
read me
listen
look
please

Or I might disintegrate.

Tallinn

I confess that I did not think a lot
maybe not even a little
maybe almost nothing
or nothing at all
about you
about us
when I was away
immersed in that other world
so charming and new.

However,
now that I am back
now that the parallel reality
I found
is left suspended out there
in a part of the globe
where I shall not return

now I know
that such a removal
had a curious effect:
it has made me realize how bleak
my life actually is
because you are not in it
how empty I feel
incomplete
and sore

and thus
this trip
has made me
love you even more.

Labour

Giving birth to expression
is so difficult sometimes.
When I need most to unravel
the emotional knots
in the thread of my thoughts
I push
wait
then push again
panting.

I flinch and cry out in despair
I want to give up
It's too much
I feel sore
but no, I won't dare

and anyway pushing
is inevitable
so I push once more

I push as hard as I can
and the pain pushes me too.


But it's impossible to deliver this time -
not even for you.



Yet all the strength this entails,
the courage, the patience -
I know that I have them,
Be sure that I do.

It's language
that's blocking the way
for this revelation -

for this unspoken
unspeakable burden
to blurt itself out

to shape itself true.

 

mute explosion

When your thoughts and mine
unleashed
- though unrevealed -
meet somewhere beyond the atmosphere
in a wonderland
divine
a curious reaction takes place:

a powerful
- though mute -
explosion of desire bursts out
and we feel that the power of that language -
much as the words remain unsaid -
could make us fly
unite
or die.

But no one notices
(no one cares, no one pries)
you blush
and I go red


and we carry on with our lives.

Oxymoron

If we were single

we wouldn't be:

I would be with you

and you with me.

So alone

So alone
am I
There's a kind of itch

in my brain

a permanent
painful
inaudible sigh
on my lips


a thorough
vibrating
longing for yonder

a wonder before
this virtual pain.



So alone
am I
and so sad

So hopeless
and vain
So indecent as well
so indulging
in this futile feeling
so pathetic
- it's insane -


that I would gladly trade places
with a beggar in the rain.

Glory

Thrilled
Is what I am,
Not nervous.
Even though I may be criticised
for all I did not do
and did not say
or shouldn't have

despite the severe formality
of the occasion

and although it is a risk
to assume that glory
is coming my way

 
I must admit
I anticipate it with a smile
I rejoice in the perspective
of that day

when seven people I admire
for their wit and intellect
will sit and discuss
what I wrote
will offer my tiny self
their high attention
and - hopefully - conclude
that my work
is worthy of respect.

Specialness

I no longer try to capture
translate
the overwhelming feelings
inside me
your existence creates.

Still you do
fill my thoughts
you carry on
being you.
And whether or not
we interact
whether or not
I can express it
it is
at least to me
an inescapable fact:

your specialness affects me
despairs me
possesses me
releases me
fulfills me.


I am, thus,
permanently rapt.

Above and beyond

What is poetry for?

Well, obviously
for limitless self-expression

for total freedom
and impunity
for the most contemptible
real or would-be action
and - for want of the real stuff
or awkward discomfort with it -
for virtual affection.


Thus

I go above and beyond
the line of my duty as a poet
indulging in this shield of exemption
from censorship, punishment, revenge.


Ironically, though,
I long to suffer such penalties
for my impertinent offense.
I want to be punished
sometimes.
You see,
punishment -
however painful -
is a recognition
of my crimes.