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.

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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  

The Plague

My head is heavy; my spine is stiff;
my nauseating vessel quavers atop this cliff,
as if death is the exit of this sleepless dream;
I am ill in this season of blossoms and grief.

We are moths diving into the hell of others,
for the affirmation of life they seem to bring;
to the shapes and moods of order we cling,
for none save our angst of life’s unruly slings.

Yet do you know that in this inviting gathering,
our glasses are of the same poisoned springs?
When the earth has naught save plagued soil,
our ideals shall be buried under our mortal coil.

Under a candle’s lead at this whimpering desk,
a lone soul stares into the unfathomable abyss;
even for Mahler is this too long a rest,
but the self must be forged in an illuminated bliss.

The right is untrue for beauty must be beheld,
yet beauty cannot be in the eyes of the beholder,
for true artistry has through the seasons dwelled,
our hearts for life with our hands grow fonder.

The golden leaves shall my long fermata grace,
just as Euterpe has visited Fryderyk’s court;
yet whose tears would for our shadows trace
— are we not but dreaming in a persistent fall?

Published in: on 21/05/2018 at 9:32 PM  Leave a Comment  

Recurring Reflections

I have a fault —
and the fault is no other than my overarching eyes,
a mortal disposed to reach for the skies,
as eagles looking down upon her own inky sighs.

For immortality I wish not,
for life is otherwise devoid of time and thus beauty,
of music that whispers of what words shy away from,
and the loves that grow for only fading cries.

Yet of death I fear —
no, not if I were a true solipsist or a loveless chest,
but that the thought of death tearing us apart,
more violently than all tragedies of history it crushes my heart.

My limbs are trapped,
in the swamp of the myriads of futures from infinite reflections,
given birth to by simply two embracing mirrors,
with a little light shone from the ghostly remarks.

Yet even this very note —
is a reflection too much, too pompous, a rest too long,
but as all notes do, who am I to judge its right or wrong —
when I am but a helpless pen instinctively swaying along?

Look at all those deeds —
so grand, so timeless, so artful…
Is not a day too short for all your quests and your might?
But look at yourself — to none but the Earth you belong.

Published in: on 21/05/2018 at 12:22 PM  Leave a Comment  

Dream Note No. 9

Not much is left of this fuzzy film,
I had oft dived and explored her realm;
fate has brought your presence to me,
a dark lair where only the blind shall see.

The flowering fields we were to visit,
what thrills would this little trip bring;
for the sweetness of the colours so exquisite,
for the air in which your beauty would swing.

In those little quarters of twisted rooms,
where a month bears five hundred days;
your night gown must be from seraphic looms,
I dared not disturb your sweet slumber with a gaze.

Elegant awakening has your lightsome steps borne,
as you tell me that we’d see on the fifty-fifth;
for the end of three long days — my bourne,
in starless silence I weave with withes.

Yet as my shadow over the table hangs,
you come to rest by my weary form;
upon my silver service you call,
your soft contours ease my fervid storms.

Alas music is not merely silvery sounds,
for time forgives not a fearful heart,
who dares not to traverse the ghostly bounds,
where the world herself has her history marked.

Published in: on 01/05/2018 at 12:30 PM  Leave a Comment