I hear fireworks.
I hear fireworks.
I can hear some white noise, but I think there’s something else too –
a heartbeat beside my own,
or is it? There’s not a lot I’m certain of,
other than my longing for certainty.
When I was younger I had a pond I’d clean out every so often
I’d transport my fish friends to temporary bucket homes
by sticking my bare hands out and feeling around in the cold unknown
It’d happen so fast, you never knew when
there’d be a split second defying space, time and the laws of fish (which at age seven, are really all one knows).
For a second I’d expand beyond the possible,
and my heart would stop with theirs.
There’s not a lot I’m certain of,
but I knew that was love
and I know you are too.
sat behind me
paint the place that’s in your head
with nothing else
‘When love beckons to you, follow him,
though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.
For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you.
Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
so shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.
Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;
And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God’s sacred feast.
All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life’s heart.
But if in your fear you would seek only love’s peace and love’s pleasure,
then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love’s threshing-floor,
into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.
Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love.
Think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.
Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love’s ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.’
– The Prophet
Paint us with a curved, soft brush,
you will notice that we glow.
Created whole, indeed enough,
that our love does overflow.
Dip your brush, and trace my thigh
next, map your way to my breast.
The ocean, a refuge,
we’re both power and heaven’s rest.
hearing a song
having it stop
and still hearing the rest
It’s three women
watching and smiling
eating apples from a tree
It’s looking at those trees
through squinted eyes
turned silver white
and seeing them line heaven
It’s being met
at a cliff edge
by the reassurance of Wind
and a warm womb of green
It’s a reflex of thought
that seeks the pulse
of a treasured stranger
in the far nearby
It’s having a fire
that burns a path
towards a place
that seems already familiar.
‘A poet is somebody who feels, and who expresses his feelings through words.
This may sound easy. It isn’t.
A lot of people think or believe or know they feel — but that’s thinking or believing or knowing; not feeling. And poetry is feeling — not knowing or believing or thinking.
Almost anybody can learn to think or believe or know, but not a single human being can be taught to feel. Why? Because whenever you think or you believe or you know, you’re a lot of other people: but the moment you feel, you’re nobody-but-yourself.
To be nobody-but-yourself — in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else — means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.
As for expressing nobody-but-yourself in words, that means working just a little harder than anybody who isn’t a poet can possibly imagine. Why? Because nothing is quite as easy as using words like somebody else. We all of us do exactly this nearly all of the time — and whenever we do it, we’re not poets.
If, at the end of your first ten or fifteen years of fighting and working and feeling, you find you’ve written one line of one poem, you’ll be very lucky indeed.
And so my advice to all young people who wish to become poets is: do something easy, like learning how to blow up the world — unless you’re not only willing, but glad, to feel and work and fight till you die.
Does that sound dismal? It isn’t.
It’s the most wonderful life on earth.
Or so I feel.’
– A Poet’s Advice