Friday, November 27, 2009

but their own.

You appear,
we speak for a while.
Where is your heart?
Will you join us?

Dark black soil
to stain your skin.
Idea held the knife
to your mind

and spoke, enters;
such absence.

If I wander here,
I trample your soul.

Let me tell you softly
what I heard
that hour,
Closer than I
can hold.
fell softly through
my fingertips,
softly through
my soul,
like memory
or water.

Heart unweaves
in words that tremble.
Fragments, silk that falls,

and I hold in my hands.
How can I,
such hands?

Too far;
this peak too high
to breach;
oh, how can I speak.

Crush my heart. Please,
take my life, and
give me away.

a small handful.

I'm posting these together: early this month, I decided to only write forty-words-or-less poems for the rest of the year. I need to become more succint, and recently had read some beautiful lyrics, yet so short and clear, written by a friend.

9th November
something bright.

When the bulb decayed,
its roots all withering;
when rain upon rain
spoke to terracotta,
cold with age—
how could I replace
or discard it?

There will be new flowers,
planted in old pots.
Springtime will watch.

12th November

Shadows spilt
long, through darkborn
morning; gentle gold beyond.
High-hung, bright hot sun
another hour.

Time collapses into time,
like love.

Silhouettes mark moments
still as hope, stir
under mystery rising:
pieces like a puzzle,
like the sky.

15th November

We’ll creep inside,
and feel too small

for beauty so strong.
Words can’t clasp the sound,

or colours the size.
It feels like something given.

19th November

I swim in many rivers,

Over the way
is the deep, where
one day
they all will run together,
wearing salt.

Often I wander there,
among the ancient ocean.

19th November
a brighter lamp.

Apart from the things we said,
and try to forget—just
listen. Stop the clock,

unwind or bind
its hands
(for now).

Hear the sound still
falling, unmeasured
by such movement;

let us enter
We’d rather just prove you.

27th November

How long will you stare at light
that appeared too late,
or mourn for what was held,
remade, before you were born?

There is nothing in you
that love hasn't answered for.
Everywhere you've been,
still he lingers.