Pas de Deux

No, not two.
Not when the snow is melting,
before she took leave of the blushing clouds,
pierced by the harsh wind.

No, not two.
Not when the flowers are fading,
before they rose above the emerald sprouts,
poisoned by the lawful flairs.

No, not two.
Not when the leaves are falling,
before they golden in the garnet droughts,
fissured by the blind fiend.

No, not two.
Not when your senses are dying,
before they caught sight of the artful hours,
wasted by the heartless fairs.

Advertisements
Published in: on 09/07/2018 at 10:51 PM  Leave a Comment  

For Life

No birth can come of this season,
as the heavens bleed at dawn,
her wounds marked by perfection,
though for imperfection I long.

For what of life I desire,
if not the beauty of a song?
To the voice of angels aspire,
to none but beauty I belong.

Published in: on 09/07/2018 at 10:00 PM  Leave a Comment  

The Limits of Being Human

With the pen you may as God pretend,
shades and flesh of all forms create;
but heroes are not made of fanciful ends,
but of their wonted mortal fate.

For what do the people’s paths diverge —
when all rivers yield to the ocean’s call?
Upon death lovers shall never part,
the truth is — death is the union of all.

What mighty sword from the legends you hold,
or mystical forces you may freely wield;
shaping life in your masterful mould,
shall not from the banes of existence shield.

So tell me, my friend, what fortunes await
— when mortality has no roads unbound?
Must I play a fool for the fools’ parade,
or to weep at the summit for the fated plague? 

If the mind could the mindless torrents sway, 
if freedom were to be no longer a curse;
no exit still from our mortal crate,
lest beauty is to be the greatest dearth.

My skin is breathing this evening air,
sensing the workings of dice or dole;
in darkness I see the inky flares
of dreams that summon from a rabbit hole.

Published in: on 07/07/2018 at 12:57 AM  Leave a Comment  

Barcarolle

My heart is a white canvas,
pleading
for autumn’s visit,
so I may to her
 whisper:
‘now of joy, now of grief.’
What hazy thoughts the haze may hold.

Apollo’s genius is the sword of Chronos
— bloodstained — for the
scarlet petals fall to their crimson demise,
over the white lilies disciples of Eros price;
the virtuous reprise is ‘soaked in gore’.

Is there a June at Saint Peter’s gate —
for where all your friends had made haste?
this lake slumbering under an indigo sky,
alone, in a boat who has lost her oar.

‘In those near final days I had visited you’
— those fleeting passages at times eternal,
a long fermata has him since imprisoned,
a ghostly longing carved all loves infernal. 

Keen — the wild roses, how vivacious you are,
adorning this wasteland with graceful scars;
yet all entwining threads must one day part,
art no more artful than two colliding stars.

Dreams, floating along a river,
are lost, to the melodies of Pyotr;
Recurring memories your memories elude,
as a quavering flame in the night quivers.

Published in: on 30/06/2018 at 10:54 PM  Leave a Comment  

Claude et Vivian

My very childhood has dictated,
to explore is my only fate;
on whatever quest I may embark,
never I fail to be off the mark.

Let us in the streets rejoice,
with music in the evening breeze;
the croaking artefact lies in poise,
like Romeo and Juliet’s final choice.

So in my embrace she had sang,
as you sat in silence, and listened;
for Joaquin or the old jazzy tunes,
your retiring eyes again glistened.

We drank chocolat at le saint-amour,
like old friends — needing no words
for our love of simply a shared rainbow
for our artful souls only we may know.

Though your legs struggled to obey,
though the smile is our only tongue;
your spirit I see in the golden frames,
in the Sicilian summits and the fabled chansons.

As rain poured down in romantic gestures,
at the window we beheld Fryderyk’s grave;
a timeless story from the Parisian leisures,
is lost in humanity’s inauthentic cave.

Published in: on 08/06/2018 at 1:09 AM  Leave a Comment  

The Will to Believe

Almost a revelation, almost…
The wise words of the wanderer
drift about as a clinging ghost,
when the thrill of life is whatever.

But not for me, not for me —
the neon lights are lying,
not even the kiss of a corpse
from the memories of the dying.

We all live for but one reason —
for want of the to be encountered.
Yet what lies in this infection?
Are not the heavens so festered? 

This is almost a crusade —
a duty of the corrupted artist,
in a tornado is this parade,
playing the mortal catalyst.

Published in: on 08/06/2018 at 12:13 AM  Leave a Comment  

To Spring

Once upon a time, there was an earth;
and on the earth, there was a land;
and in the land, there was a river;
and by the river, there stood a house.

A pair of lovebirds nested in the willow
that watched over a garden of tulips,
where often two lovers would promenade,
in his black silk vest and her embroidered blouse.

They strolled along that little road,
through the sweet scent of morning mud,
where children roamed among the flowers
that were not painted by lead and blood.

By the fireplace he played his guitar,
who rose out of the fabled rosewood,
when forests had not built hills of tar,
when the peaceful skies we did not intrude.

One day that willow too perished in flames,
where the river passed lay shattered frames;
one day our little summit may also flood,
summer and winter war over autumn’s dust. 

My child, if you have seen the colours of spring,
you would forsake all for you may to her cling;
alas only amidst these corpses are we to brood
over none but legends of our silent prelude.

Published in: on 02/06/2018 at 10:34 PM  Leave a Comment  

Mujer de Bachín

The night gently fell
upon this passage of stories,
our hosts left for the theatre,
as words were replaced by airs.

My guitar softly held
the tears from those tales,
the burgundy in our glasses
faint in your flaming glares.

Melodic whispers embraced
the journeys of an unfaltering heart;
You talked of Paderewski,
and of our lovely friend.

By that quarter you dwelled,
you said, as our souls tangoed,
in the land to whom I am strange,
though her passions I apprehend.

You dimmed the lights,
as all those years unfold,
your devotion has eclipsed,
your losses and your woes.

Of love and life you spoke,
as the song came to a close;
farewell, for now, my friend,
Clarinette will keep our rose.

Published in: on 01/06/2018 at 9:41 PM  Leave a Comment  

A Carriage to Żelazowa Wola

So, again has the rushing of blood
flooded the grandeur of thought;
and again, has the beauty of life
in your youthful expeditions caught.
You have lived in all those times,
and embraced their fleeting presence;
and now to whom are you to sigh
— to long for all that is lost.

As the morning hours had passed
with songs from the elvish planes;
the most airy, unearthly arts
are born out of earthly pains.
Slowly the dark bitter nights
are conquered, by the cold-hearted lights,
as summer has his advice ignored,
impatiently humanity ignites.

Again the second nocturnes visit
your waning, wandering soul,
for eternity his music shall restore,
though on them you may die.
The gardens of his childhood home,
rest at the end of your nostalgic road;
your friends in February’s Warsaw
— alas, in this graveyard of humanity you lie.

In those days you have got on well,
though without unduly customs;
why must you now deny yourself,
where is your ardent, suffering sprouts?
Apathy is the illusion of sanity
in times of mechanical reverence;
when the beauty of life you surrender,
is when all griefs and loves are lost.

Published in: on 31/05/2018 at 1:13 PM  Leave a Comment  

An Orphan

In a haze, where his own fingers are lost
in a white darkness. From the unknown,
as if the broken lyre of Orpheus is sought
for an intermittent melody he disowned.

The piano keys are struck and caressed
by an alabaster hand. A familiar song,
or a mourning pavane? From the silent
quarters where not even ghosts haunt. 

For the romping of a carriage he calls,
from that old cathedral — desolate, alone,
abandoned by the rampage of modernity,
by the verdant sprouts and the rotting bones.

Heartless or heartful? Master or slave —
to the world or to the will; or perhaps beyond
all good and evil? Like that eerie, suave
Idiot who loved and only loved for none
but the lonely heart, and for hearts to save
with all his blood, his sense, his wrongs.

None would hear — when the buried
histories forged his patchy mail, and honed
his eternally crumbling, burning, flurried
rub that is his mellow, sacrificial tone;
like the frame of a cello without her post,
confused, helpless, suffocating for a parlance;
or that silver string on Sor’s guitar —
improper, treacherous, knocked off his balance.

At last the piece must end, for all
the crescendos and fermati we have yet known.
A lost light must in this world fall,
for the air across the field of tombstones.

Memories encircle as the music plays;
raindrops into the river flows — long
to return, or perhaps only Gaea’s chassés?
Still in a haze, to nowhere he belongs.

Published in: on 25/05/2018 at 12:30 AM  Leave a Comment