Where shall I find thee?

Where shall I find thee O rest?

When restless breaths arrest the moments

Treasure bound in buried chest

Locked away, O where is rest?

 

Where shall I meet thee O solace?

When rivers of sound flow into my ears

To drown me in blissful surrender

Und ich zittert – le danse dans ma cœur

 

Where shall I see thee O beauty?

In a humming carriage, slithering tracks

With eyes fixated through window panes

The reel of life in flickering frames

 

Where shall I kiss thee O peace?

Caressing wind on timid skin at moonrise

Bare soles beating along puddled lanes

Thunderstorm rumbles from the ground through my veins

 

Where shall I find thee O rest?

When restless breaths arrest the moments

Treasure bound in buried chest

Locked away, O where is rest?

To this day…

a nourishment of grief…

I drink of the ink

of the words of yesteryear

a nourishment of grief

for a heart hopelessly hungering

for departing joys that stroll away

into distances of fog and pipe smoke

bliss danced swinging around lampposts. mind broke

now cracked with age and wrinkled thoughts

like puddles glistening on the pavement

in weary night after joyful splashing day

unclear, yet awakened under golden candle light

by the drink of the ink

a nourishment of grief.

‘Howl’ by Allen Ginsberg

The Sacred Realm

Pen seems foreign to paper now
As I write to you my friend
In this realm of sacred poetry
We fought so hard to defend
So many many years ago
When you were young
and I was foolish
Yet together; we were beautiful

Oh mystery we worshipped thee
Our truest words shared here
The medium of poetic confessions
More alive with love than we were
Adolescent corpses entwined in living words
You read me – I read you
Broken spines but no-one knew us
A universe of two

I wonder if you shall read this friend
And read me like you used to
Perhaps we are too old now
For childish games and bashful ways
Yet as the years go by the grip holds tighter
Around the memories of our secret realm
And how we used it
We used it so well

I wonder if you shall read this friend
And know it is you I write of
It always was a guessing game
As hope and doubt battled while eyes searched
Is that my spirit in your ink?
And your blood in mine?
We never knew for sure
But always defined our communion
From this sacred realm

Pen seems foreign to paper now
As I write to you my friend
In this realm of sacred poetry
We fought so hard to defend
So many many years ago…
You are still young
and I am foolish
So forever; may we be beautiful?

A Half-acre of Land

‘For those want most, alas, who already have plenty’

– Rabindranath Tagore

Broken Song

‘The singer alone does not make a song, there has to be someone who hears:
One man opens his throat to sing, the other sings in his mind.
Only when waves fall on the shore do they make a harmonious sound;
Only when breezes shake the woods do we hear a rustling in the leaves.
Only from a marriage of two forces does music arise in the world.
Where there is no love, where listeners are dumb, there never can be song.’

– Rabindranath Tagore

The Golden Boat

‘One small paddy-field, no one but me –
Flood-waters twisting and swirling everywhere.
Trees on the far bank smear shadows like ink
On a village painted on deep morning grey.
On this side a paddy-field, no one but me.’

– Rabindranath Tagore

The Meghadūta

Your stanzas are themselves
Like dark-layered sonorous clouds, heaping the misery
Of all separated lovers throughout the world
Into thunderous music.

– Rabindranath Tagore