Letter – 15 October 2011 II

 

Beloved,

I have tried so many times to respond… but however does one begin to write a poem for a poet?
When I search for comfort I find my breath, concealing you in song. There, our voices sing to the moon and the blossoming dawn, as they lay bare the fragrance of the earth. Aching, for your feet to step to my path, to penetrate the expertise that comes from loving over and over and over again, I wait, hoping you will remember the shared field, our lips amongst the harvest, bodies tied to earth searching for their truth…

A

Advertisements

12 thoughts on “Letter – 15 October 2011 II

  1. Beyond the Desert: One Field

    The shoots of love from my body have grown
    O! These were the seeds that your kiss has blown
    On winds of forever to rest in me –
    Two bodies in shared growth – Love, we are ‘known.’

    ~

    As the eye of the moon, let your word quiver still in the pond of heart.

  2. Letter, 04 November 2011

    Beloved,

    Behold the red leaves falling from the cloud of dawn on the blue mountain in the far distance. Heed, a strange wind is breezing with hands and wings stroking our field and uttering words that never have been spoken. A creek is passing by and already a yellow bird is awake, drinking, singing thanks to the sky. The loaf of bread is one, unbroken, and the wooden cup that the old oak shaped and gifted is already brimming with the vineyards’ wine. The table is set, joyful and ready with bread and wine, spilling a river of warmth, a feast bathing in the breath of love.

    Beloved, it is our song, the salat of dusk and dawn that ever led our feet through life’s many trials and trails to finally meet here, in this sunrise garden, on the slopes of this breaking dawn. I close my eyes and knowing floods my heart: “the poem, it is we, never written and never spoken, never chained with ink, behind walls of paper, but a butterfly fluttering forever from flame-flower to flame-flower, suckling milk and honey and radiating colours of moon and wine. The poem, it is we, with neither beginning nor ending but a perfect circle turning and uniting as the seasons entwine. The poem, it is we, heart in heart beating, falling and rising in a sublime dance to music divine. The poem, it is we, from God’s heart flowing white, pure, pristine.”

    Beloved, morn’s star is in my hand quivering and dancing, fulfilled for being symbol and emblem binding these two souls in love’s freedom, One.

  3. Dearest,

    There was soft rain falling on the night your letter arrived. The envelope was damp, almost as if a teardrop had slipped out of the eyelid of this paper. Outside, the moon was as milky as the blind eye of a poet and inside, your blue ink spilled like a hot night in Cuba. I paused and smelled the envelope, vaguely hoping for a hint of your perfume, but nothing…nothing the spicy scent of a Cedar branch that was collected along the way.

    I also ache to have your feet beside me, to feel your arms curl inside of mine, and to hold your legs each and every night. I admit, I sometimes wonder if loneliness ever moves you to have someone else at your side. It’s a thought that hurts too much, and if so…I’d rather never truly know.

    It’s hard to feel composed when every corner of my day is filled by someone I cannot touch. There are layers and layers of days in the calendar that won’t be filled by you. I sometimes sit around undoing, and then cataloging, all the moments I had spent with you.

    These miles dividing us has become too difficult for my inadequate heart to endure. I don’t want to cover my face every time that I long for you. I don’t want to sigh alone anymore. I don’t want to carry these feelings around like a rope that has nowhere to be tied to.

    I remember everything about us, all its details has the sound of a guitar playing in an empty auditorium. There are door handles waiting to be turned by you. Until then, I’ll be waiting within the velvet of its curtains…

    Sincerely,

    H

    • “There was soft rain falling on the night your letter arrived. The envelope was damp, almost as if a teardrop had slipped out of the eyelid of this paper. Outside, the moon was as milky as the blind eye of a poet and inside, your blue ink spilled like a hot night in Cuba. I paused and smelled the envelope, vaguely hoping for a hint of your perfume…”

      God! See… I read you and I shiver. So smoothly, you capture the sultry scent of a scene. As a reader, I’m left enamoured, wanting to tangle my tongue around each stanza, although, I already know that to taste the rich layers is not merely enough… one needs to peel back the “velvety curtains” and feast…

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s