The purpose of a flower

Do flowers become trees?
They shall fail.
The forest expects trees.
The flower has failed already
It’s younger self
It’s childhood dreams
It’s vision of a golden trunk,
with golden leaves.

Can a flower but stare?
There is a window
Not its window
Rather the eyes that see through it
And what it sees through it
And how it sees it all
And how no one else sees it like it does
And what it makes of what it sees.
It shall take comfort in that.

Does it do it to herself?
It does.
The flower is also the weed
The dryness
The dark
The chain
The scissor
The broken porcelain vase
The aimless arrow.

Is there a point to a flower?
To be born against all odds
To bloom.
To love the wind
To light up the garden
To feed the bees and butterflies
To wither in the blink of an eye
To survive the frost
To die overnight.

Shall it bloom in the darkness?
The void expands.
There is no garden
There is no rain
There’s too much rain
It’s cold in the shade
It burns in the sun.

Where will it live?
Let it live in a tree house
In a leaf
In a sunbeam
In a cloud
In a moor
In the abyss
By Orion’s Nebulae

Can a flower but be?
Bloom, flower.
Time is unrelenting
The forest will not wait
Bloom
Before you wither.

2b00632ccf4a73922b07e23b673f02ad

Illustration by Edith Rewa

Advertisements

A Song of Opposites, by John Keats

“Under the flag
Of each his faction, they to battle bring
Their embryon atoms.” – Milton

WELCOME joy, and welcome sorrow,
Lethe’s weed and Hermes’ feather;
Come to-day, and come to-morrow,
I do love you both together!
I love to mark sad faces in fair weather;
And hear a merry laugh amid the thunder;
Fair and foul I love together.
Meadows sweet where flames are under,
And a giggle at a wonder;
Visage sage at pantomine;
Funeral, and steeple-chime;
Infant playing with a skull;
Morning fair, and shipwreck’d hull;
Nightshade with the woodbine kissing;
Serpents in red roses hissing;
Cleopatra regal-dress’d
With the aspic at her breast;
Dancing music, music sad,
Both together, sane and mad;
Muses bright and muses pale;
Sombre Saturn, Momus hale; –
Laugh and sigh, and laugh again;
Oh the sweetness of the pain!
Muses bright, and muses pale,
Bare your faces of the veil;
Let me see; and let me write
Of the day, and of the night –
Both together: – let me slake
All my thirst for sweet heart-ache!
Let my bower be of yew,
Interwreath’d with myrtles new;
Pines and lime-trees full in bloom,
And my couch a low grass-tomb.

Posthumous and fugitive Poems

slide_402696_4998404_free

The dimming lights

Before the lights leave completely
The city shines as if innocent.
Concrete seem harmless
Streets are empty
Only a hum.
Echoes
Cars, screams, anger.

Nothing but air.

Rain has been falling.
Lovingly falling
Over the city.
Covering it with a sweet silver blanket.
That shimmers under the leaving lights.
It welcomes the resonance of blackness
The brightness of blackness
The temptation of blackness.

What creeps there in the shadows?
I hear it breathing
Staring
Without a blink
Its ears pressed
Waiting behind the line
The thin line where my lamp shines no more.
There it dwells and grows
Reproduces
Gruesome figure
Skin decomposing
The stench..

I felt safe just a minute ago
Watching the lights leave
Marveled by the shimmer
Seduced by the softness of the sky.
The cold wind knew
He hugged me and knew
That he would leave me
To fight the night alone
To face the demons alone
To shiver on my bed alone.

If only I could sleep
Let myself sleep
Leave my body to its mercy
Let my dreams own me
Let the night own me
Flood me
Be me.

The last sunbeams leave the city
Oh, the colors!
The glow!
I loose myself.
The vastness
I feel it.
It feels me.
We flirt.
We kiss.
Our secret.

IMG_8784

Foto: Nathalie M.

Vs.

I Must get it out.
Out of my brain
My mouth
My fingers.

Out, I tell you!
The helplessness
Of not being able
Of barely touching
Of almost screaming
Almost saying
Almost letting go
So close.

Not close enough
To satisfy me.
This appetite for emotion
This need for feeling
To feel as strong,
As Intensely as my thoughts
As my hand in a fist
As my anger towards me
Towards what I see of me
In what I hate
I the ones I hate.

I shiver
When faced with instinct.
How I envy you!
Action without reason
Feeling without guilt.
Spilling out guts and brain
Words and tears
Until there is nothing
But silence.
An everlasting ease
Peace of mind
Breath
Heart beat.

Stripped to the bone
Naked
Torn
Put back together again
Nothing left but skin
And nowhere else to hide.

I stood in the presence of instinct
Just the other night.
It didn’t look me in the eye
It showed itself through color
Pure and bare.
I felt small.
Reason creeping in
Control
Self control
Order
Cleanliness
Caution
Prevention
Madness

Is everything organized?
Are my shirts color-coded?
Can I tell you what to do?
Please do everything my way.
I’ll go crazy otherwise.
The chaos inside my head
Is somewhat blinding
It makes no sense
I cannot think.

Instinct tells me to scream
Reason tells me to hold it.

IMG_7800

The touch of rain  

Even now, through all this rain
My eyes see no clearer
My breath reaches no further.
The tip of my nose
The scale of my sight.

The experience of warmth
I feel it
Briskly through my fingers
On my tongue.
On the drops that slide down my cheek
To my pillow
To the floor
Where they become nothing
Not even a dream of growth
The spur of an eventual flower
Fragile and ephemeral
A laugh
A thought
A bit of pain
Afflicted, welcome, received.
Not quantifiable
A spoonful of mistakes
A cup of good intentions.

It rains thunder
Over the greyness of the city
Over its doubts and secrets.
Nice, cold, fresh blanket.
Icy caress.
That of a giver of life
Disguised as an undertaker.

My backyard grows savagely
Clouds dance savagely
It all makes sense
This very minute of chaos
Of universal movement
A moment of life
Logical, stupid, passionate.

It makes sense for the rain.
It makes sense for my eyes
That see the rain pour
Who want to be that drop in free fall
The moment it hits the leaves
The road
A naked body
A word screamed
With all its might.

Still I am not wet
I don’t get wet
Watching from afar.
Dreaming from afar
That I will come close
And get lost
And be cold
And be storm
Be one with it
Dance with it
No ceremony
No expectations.
Just a moment
In the chaos.
Beautiful.

Leave me alone world!
No!
Don’t leave me!
Show me.
I desire nothing but to be wind and rain.

FullSizeRender

Flower In Bloom

Rapidly fleeting is the flower in bloom.
Fresh, scented, soft,
Evil and good.

Ever so naïve.
Bewildered by the morning caress
Even nights come as a rare gift
Of solitude and silence,
Where she thinks herself eternal
As the stars in her eyes
And the moon in her heart.

A soft twinkle of rain,
But a precious moment.
Suspended in the air
Between drop and drop
A sigh
A breath
A look
A dream
Hanging from the most fragile thread.
Invisible ray of hope
That the green, amiable garden
Will be there to hold.

Oh, dearest!
Flower in bloom.
Until a petal of yours feathers away
Eaten by time
Stricken by secrets
Lied to by smiles
In which you laid
Your flower life.
Petals withered and cold
Wrinkled and dry
Like the stars you once held in your stare
And the moon that once lived in your heart.

That second of life
That moment of despair
A scream so loud
So strong in your bones
You think you might crack
With the subtlest blow.
But you are wind.
You don’t break.
There’s a root you can’t tame.

Oh, stupid flower!
A flower no more
The next turn of the clock
That moment suspended
Between drop and drop
Heartbeat in you gorge
The one inhalation
Its all there is.
Right now
Tonight
A touch
A laugh.
Ever so naïve.

If only it could be so.
The guilt of the innocent,
The hand of the kind.
I would kiss you forever,
Oh! Amiable heart.
The one true in nature.
Unfeigned mask
Sweet smell
Clear breath.
Flower in bloom.
I will nest you and love you
If you let me be you.

DSC_0089

Midnight Rhyme

I was told today a poem takes time to write.
Not minutes or months, but years of time.
One must suffer, edit, cry and try.
And still, it will not be considered done.

I said I could write one in five or six minutes.
Depends on the due date and pressure I’m given.
I generally work like so, with no dimension or order.
But ideas do come and some pages they cover.

Am I less of a writer for writing this fast?
I do know discipline is what I really lack.
Amongst other things in which I am working on.
But a fast written text is not my low point.

I write constantly in my head.
Titles and characters. Plots and romance.
People who can never be together,
escape and go dance.

They never see the light, these people in my head.
I leave them unattended and try to look ahead.
My hands can’t hold a pen.
My mind is usually blocked.
Writing does not come easy, for a girl who wants it as a job.

I want to say so many things.
And word’s just don’t come out.
What’s to become of me?
If I can’t say what I feel and feel what I want.

One might think my destiny doomed.
I think so myself one morning out of two.
So I gave it a shot with this little poem.
And rhyme, I discovered, took longer and longer.

Half an hour, and more, to give it some sense.
To say what I wanted with a little grace.
I didn’t come up with a universal truth.
But five or six minutes would not have do.

No certainties were answered, no questions were explained.
Confusion still lingers, but I am off to bed.
It’s nine minutes to twelve.Tomorrow I must work.
But one thing I know now is that writing is absurd.

And may be if I am as absurd as it,
I might just be ok.