Silence
You can not write silence onto a page. You can not send a blank letter. I wish you were here so I could be quiet with you. *** Prehistoric poets You use words like crude tools, their legato stifled, stuck in the back of your throat: the guttural warble of a broken spade sunk into rich and fruitful soil or a hand-fashioned sandstone axe flung wildly at sleek metaphors. *** Fishin' Methinks the fisherman has caught himself a shark - A fish his nets can't keep and boat cannot support. Yet he he maintains the line. Hooked firmly to his bark, The beast is tethered tightly and the line is taut. What use has he for her? A stew, a steak, a dish With spice and wonder or is she but testament To skill and courage of his crew, meant to distinguish Men from boys as women brim with wonderment? A shark! The whispers gather on the deck like smoke, A haze of fear and pride, they savour their reward While their night's catch fights vainly 'gainst unyielding yoke - The sun picks out staccato splashes overboard. Beneath a full white sail, the plunderers of the sea Debate their options: cut it loose or keep it snared? Under their captain's caustic eye, they all agree: The line cannot be hewed, it holds a catch too rare. So they return to port, the wearied beast in tow, Dragged by determined boat t'ward hungry waiting lips, Ready to feast and praise and drink and sing 'bravo,' A crowd collects to watch and greet the ship... But wait awhile - the story isn't done just yet, For all but one had yielded to the captain's wish. One conscience compromised, one heart filled with regret Had waited until backs were turned and loosed the fish. And thus, she lives today, indebted to his name, His tender mercy greater than his lust for fame. |
Intellect in iambic pentameter
For countless thinkers in this mortal plane, Both great and small, remembered or forgot, Though some may fear their minds have toiled in vain, I craft this verse, assuring you they've not. With ignorance our foremost foe, we sought Great truths as nourishment for hungry minds, And yet our hunger grew with each fresh thought. "O, unjust paradox!" wept humankind. And some, disheartened thus, forsook the quest, And turned to simple and immediate joys: Once hungry minds now lay in idle rest, Once powerful wits now withered, unemployed. I hail brave scholars, who, in times of doubt Turned not on knowledge frightened backs. Instead, Armed with a step determined and devout, Sought knowledge out and ne'er from darkness fled. In gratitude extends this modest rhyme To those whom I give audience and ear, And those forever lost in folds of time And distance - those, whose work I'll never hear. Like me, you lent your audience to great, Now timeless, bards, philosophers and men Of science - those, whose talent was innate. To you they owe that they are read again. So hearken, agile minds and fearless hearts: Unless, of course, your motives selfish prove, Take comfort in that you have played your part In keeping living that which I now love. *** Frustration lent my mortal loins, this song. I fear I've left it short - or far too long. |
The Invitation by Oriah
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing. It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love for your dream for the adventure of being alive. It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon... I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain. I want to know if you can sit with pain mine or your own without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it. I want to know if you can be with joy mine or your own if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful to be realistic to remember the limitations of being human. It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy. |
I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence. I want to know if you can live with failure yours and mine and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, “Yes.” It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children. It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back. It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away. I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments. By Oriah © Mountain Dreaming, from the book The Invitation published by HarperONE, San Francisco, 1999 All rights reserved |
The Puppet
If for a moment God would forget that I am a rag doll and give me a scrap of life, possibly I would not say everything that I think, but I would definitely think everything that I say. I would value things not for how much they are worth but rather for what they mean. I would sleep little, dream more. I know that for each minute that we close our eyes we lose sixty seconds of light. I would walk when the others loiter; I would awaken when the others sleep. I would listen when the others speak, and how I would enjoy a good chocolate ice cream. If God would bestow on me a scrap of life, I would dress simply, I would throw myself flat under the sun, exposing not only my body but also my soul. My God, if I had a heart, I would write my hatred on ice and wait for the sun to come out. With a dream of Van Gogh I would paint on the stars a poem by Benedetti, and a song by Serrat would be my serenade to the moon. |
With my tears I would water the roses, to feel the pain of their thorns and the incarnated kiss of their petals...My God, if I only had a scrap of life... I wouldn't let a single day go by without saying to people I love, that I love them. I would convince each woman or man that they are my favourites and I would live in love with love. I would prove to the men how mistaken they are in thinking that they no longer fall in love when they grow old--not knowing that they grow old when they stop falling in love. To a child I would give wings, but I would let him learn how to fly by himself. To the old I would teach that death comes not with old age but with forgetting. I have learned so much from you men.... I have learned that everybody wants to live at the top of the mountain without realizing that true happiness lies in the way we climb the slope. I have learned that when a newborn first squeezes his father's finger in his tiny fist, he has caught him forever. I have learned that a man only has the right to look down on another man when it is to help him to stand up. I have learned so many things from you, but in the end most of it will be no use because when they put me inside that suitcase, unfortunately I will be dying. translated by Matthew Taylor and Rosa Arelis Taylor |
The Faithless Wife
So I took her to the river believing she was a maiden, but she already had a husband. It was on St. James night and almost as if I was obliged to. The lanterns went out and the crickets lighted up. In the farthest street corners I touched her sleeping breasts and they opened to me suddenly like spikes of hyacinth. The starch of her petticoat sounded in my ears like a piece of silk rent by ten knives. Without silver light on their foliage the trees had grown larger and a horizon of dogs barked very far from the river. Past the blackberries, the reeds and the hawthorne underneath her cluster of hair I made a hollow in the earth I took off my tie, she too off her dress. I, my belt with the revolver, She, her four bodices. |
Nor nard nor mother-o’-pearl have skin so fine, nor does glass with silver shine with such brilliance. Her thighs slipped away from me like startled fish, half full of fire, half full of cold. That night I ran on the best of roads mounted on a nacre mare without bridle stirrups. As a man, I won’t repeat the things she said to me. The light of understanding has made me more discreet. Smeared with sand and kisses I took her away from the river. The swords of the lilies battled with the air. I behaved like what I am, like a proper gypsy. I gave her a large sewing basket, of straw-colored satin, but I did not fall in love for although she had a husband she told me she was a maiden when I took her to the river. |
"Map Shower"
For Marcia I want your hair to cover me with maps of new places, so everywhere I go will be as beautiful as your hair. "I Live in the Twentieth Century" For Marcia I live in the Twentieth Century and you lie here beside me. You were unhappy when you fell asleep. There was nothing I could do about it. I felt helpless. Your face is so beautiful that I cannot stop to describe it, and there's nothing I can do to make you happy while you sleep. "December 24" She's mending the rain with her hair. She's turning the darkness on. Glue / switch! That's all I have to report. "November 3" I'm sitting in a cafe, drinking a Coke. A fly is sleeping on a paper napkin. I have to wake him up, so I can wipe my glasses. There's a pretty girl I want to look at. |
"Your Necklace is Leaking" For Marcia Your necklace is leaking and blue light drips from your beads to cover your beautiful breasts with a clear African dawn. "Gee, You're So Beautiful That It's Starting to Rain" Oh, Marcia, I want your long blonde beauty to be taught in high school, so kids will learn that God lives like music in the skin and sounds like a sunshine harpsichord. I want high school report cards to look like this: Playing with Gentle Glass Things A Computer Magic A Writing Letters to Those You Love A Finding out about Fish A Marcia’s Long Blonde Beauty A+! |
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