Tag Archives: unfathomable futures

start where you are…

start where you are

You can’t go back and change the beginning,
but you can start where you are
and change the ending.

— C. S. Lewis —

the only way you can invent tomorrow…

the only way you can invent tomorrow

Your fingers know the many secrets of my pleasure.
Your mouth is the key to my sultry moans.
Your cock spreading my lips is a promise
you whisper with your eyes.

the encounter…

(enchanted by this strange proximity)

Longing, and mystery, and delight…
as if from the swaying blackness
of some slow-motion masquerade
onto the dim bridge you came.

And night flowed, and silent there floated
into its satin streams
that black mask’s wolf-like profile
and those tender lips of yours.

And under the chestnuts, along the canal
you passed, luring me askance.
What did my heart discern in you,
how did you move me so?

In your momentary tenderness,
or in the changing contour of your shoulders,
did I experience a dim sketch
of other — irrevocable — encounters?

Perhaps romantic pity
led you to understand
what had set trembling that arrow
now piercing through my verse?

I know nothing. Strangely
the verse vibrates, and in it, an arrow…
Perhaps you, still nameless, were
the genuine, the awaited one?

But sorrow not yet quite cried out
perturbed our starry hour.
Into the night returned the double fissure
of your eyes, eyes not yet illumed.

For long? For ever? Far off
I wander, and strain to hear
the movement of the stars above our encounter
and what if you are to be my fate…

Longing, and mystery, and delight,
and like a distant supplication…
My heart must travel on.
But if you are to be my fate…

— Vladimir Nabokov —
translated by Olga Voronina

favum… vos sunt a musa

favumYes:
Let the wax raise
green statues, let the honey
drip in infinite tongues, let the ocean be a big comb
and the Earth a tunic of flowers, let the World
be a cascade, magnificent hair, unceasing
growth of Beedom.

– Pablo Neruda –

spreading her wings

tested, by the force of the tempest…

exposed to her elementI walk slowly to myself,
through a forest of empty suits of armour.

– Tomas Tranströmer –

cliff notes

gone are the birds that were our summer guests…

looking legsThe crickets are raucous; wild for a reason, I guess.
The wind feels like… courage.
(Like that, only simpler.)
The fire pit smoulders; my hair smells of ash.
Tonite.
A season comes to pass framed by silky memories
and eventual, hopeful strains for some near-distant night.
You. Me. This.
We spread ourselves wide to the horizon that cradles our future –
the velvet expanse of our yet-to-be-known.
Awash in the restlessness of almost-goneness
I wish I had more time
grateful I can leave some of all that was behind.
A fruition of time that on this eve
blossoms and wilts.

Leaving is bittersweet.
It always is.
L

– Lola Moi –

a hope carol…

A night was near, a day was near,
Between a day and night
I heard sweet voices calling clear,
Calling me:
I heard a whirr of wing on wing,
But could not see the sight;
I long to see my birds that sing,
I long to see.
Below the stars, beyond the moon,
Between the night and day
I heard a rising falling tune
Calling me:
I long to see the pipes and strings
Whereon such minstrels play;
I long to see each face that sings,
I long to see.
Today or may be not today,
Tonight or not tonight,
All voices that command or pray
Calling me,
Shall kindle in my soul such fire
And in my eyes such light
That I shall see that heart’s desire
I long to see.
L

– Christina Georgina Rossetti

a hope carol

stumbling is not falling…

reach deep
through the muck of time
sing
proclaim the past your friend
the present your lover
eat what is to come until you are full
change the lightbulb
not for what your next step might be
but for the room you have just entered
see the marvel that is space-to-be-filled

space to be filled

the moment…

that moment whenThe moment when, after many years of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room, house, half-acre, square mile, island, country, knowing at last how you got there, and say, I own this,

is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can’t breathe.

No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.

– Margaret Atwood –

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