Poetry Challenge – A Letter To Myself

22 February 2012

 

Dear A,

The years pass by like landscapes painted and pinned to the walls of consciousness, moments caught like musical notes strung into a sprawling jazz piece where spontaneous brass and ivory court the senses with teachings of grandeur.

We hear only the sounds we permit ourselves to hear. Of them, take only a few, and of those few, experience them like you are made of sand. We are but travelers with a silent yearning. When the heart gestures at the bird in flight, follow it.

Abide generously when the mind searches for silence. It is your music it longs to hear. The mad man and the poet know the way. Wipe their tears with your palm and water the garden. Watch what blooms, illuminated and awakened, when you let go of false certainties.

The artist transfers the shades of their vulnerability onto canvas. Listen as the shadows fall away. Tomorrow the sun will set as always and man’s growth, will rise with the moon…

The dead bird, to dust births flowers. There is consequence, and consistency. The seasons, a great journey forward. This is harmonies dependance.

Cradle your melody upon your heart and corner the breast like vanishing dew. In your grasp, faith, for next season. The wound is where the music flows from. Everything has life.

And A, don’t let the piano play your song without you…

 

Sincerely,

Yours

 

 

 

 

NOTE: With thanks to ClownRhymes Poetry Challenge found at http://clownponders.wordpress.com/2012/02/21/348/#comment-1595

 

Unfolding the Sun

 

Let a woman’s heart be a sphere,
And the soul of a man
That moves between her lips and her heart,
Devotion, a brave flower whose fragrance
Fresh, embroidered wishes
Into her soil.  Dreams

Shepard birds to her hips where,
Vines like united souls twine,
Oath-ed to his temple mount,
She gives songs borne of his fruit.

Let the Beloved’s imagination twist
A song from her face –
The magic of a poets verse
Gracefully hanging from her kiss,
Stars, guilty of dust and all the joys
Of love colouring an innocent sky

And taking a subdued path
With a borrowed promise,
A gentle rising,
Until, the veil wakes
And awake before the eyes of lovers
All stands open.

Enchanted, of the sweetest elixir
A soul to his soul
When her heart bends eastward
Calling to dawn, in prayer
He, the rising sun…

 

 

© A Hannan

 

For Kellie’s ‘Wish Jar’ http://magicinthebackyard.wordpress.com/the-wish-jar/

Untitled – on writing

 

 

Autumn stoops,
Picking memories to gather before winter,
All the hues of the world, translated through stem
And petals resignated voice.
When I write, I write something new
As if watching birds will help me fly,
As if each fallen leaf, summered and spoken
Becomes, a petal after winters turn.
I write and rewrite as flowers drop
Their petticoats, picking heartbeats
Coloured with the shades of sunset.
Now, they mark a new memory.

Is uncertainty the same as not knowing?

 

 

 

(c) A Hannan

 

 

Submission for Third Sunday Blog Carnival Volume 1, No. 3 http://thirdsundaybc.com/

 

Stories of a Madman

 

 

I happened upon a flower I did not recognise,
Its shadow imprinted with the suns height,
Admonitions, a gentle nostalgic breeze raising shoulders,
Mastering curls already tussled, my lips
Arguing with themselves as I came back to me.

~

I closed my eyes and picked a random flower with a blind hand,
Tempted, its colour brushed across the sky.
I watched a poet once press the scent beside his heart
Where it proceeded to advance analogies of death.
All essence seeks love. When we reach it, robes fall off,
The petal dies. There is nothing so lovely at all.

~

I want this union. Life slipping to forever, resurrecting an uninhabited us.
I watch birds; they know the moment to fly.
I listen to the many fallen leaves; they know when to sing with the wind.
I learned from the madman who came to bury me;
He told me it was time to meet you.

~

I will meet you there in the garden at sunrise. You already know the way.

 

 

(c) A Hannan