I wrote my first ever Christmas poem after all this time... I guess it was just the time for it now.
"When the Cold Returns"
The North does have its summer
but short and whimsical;
an interval of blooming,
but it is soon recalled.
And then you sit in darkness,
for light your soul now yearns –
but there’s no use in crying
when the cold returns.
You see the sun set early,
rise late – it barely burns;
gives little heat of notice,
and then the cold returns.
You long for months ahead now,
for spring and summertime –
but until then there’s one thing
that brightens this dark rhyme:
It is a Christmas greeting;
a Merry Christmas, you,
remember; ‘tis the reason
that we can make it through.
Since this is a very personal poem (and very long too) I have decided only to share excerpts of it. So, why have I chosen to share any of it at all? Basically because I want to share (at some distance) with people (most of whom will never experience a similar state of mind) what it feels like to love someone as intensely as this. This is not purely a sexual poem. The sexual parts (most of which are left out of course) are only halfway material and "real", halfway metaphorical.
Excerpts of "Ode of Absolute Surrender"
I lost myself to you – you are the centre of my world now –
I now have to belong to you – I see no other life of any worth –
There’s no part left in me that doesn’t reach for you.
There’s no place in my heart you breath doesn’t pass through.
There’s no life, love or hope left without you.
There’s nothing I’d love more than being one with you;
dissolve in you,
merge with you,
Your fingertips trace fire on my skin –
my thighs are burning when they draw you in –
my heart that trembles when you’re gone finds rest
when beating to the tune out of your chest –
Come, give yourself to me as I
have given me to you.
Come, share yourself with me
as I share all with you.
I see what I see – cheekbones, ears and jaw
seem to defy every material law
assuming shapes of such aesthetic awe
that nature only could have been the source –
you, I adore!
The glitter in your eyes, the strength of golden hands,
the broadness of your shoulders – heat in every glance.
I press myself to you and wish to merge with you –
my body urges me to become one with you.
The manly scent of love that trails along your skin –
the warm embrace of love that your eyes promise –
I raise my eyes to you in adoration when I feel
your weight shift in the bed as you get up;
the joy of knowing that you shall return to me,
the sweet surrender; knowing that I cannot make it stop.
I am rather happy with the rhythm of this poem. The subject is an old one but my experimentation with rhythm seems to bear fruit at long last.
Have you been to the point in your life where your fate
that ought to bring you on, ahead,
reminds you of the past instead
and makes you reflect on what you once had?
When I was a little bit younger than now
I knew of a love beyond name;
but only the accompanying shame
remains with me – stays with me now.
The shame that I carry – the knowledge that all
I left of a mark on her body or soul
was a scar on her leg – that is all!
For love is a whimsical, quick-tired squall.
And yet, though I ought not to feel like I do,
I’m happy to know that I left this –
this mark, longer lasting than our longest kiss,
that of me shall always remind you.
The future’s unknown and my focus is blurred,
my love has a mind of its own;
fear though I might I know I’ve left one,
if not quite enduring, mark on the world.
This is not written to a person but to my hometown in a fit of nostalgia following the election campaigns currently going on. It doesn't change the fact that this really is (potentially) "the truest love poem I shall ever write" since my love for my hometown is far more stable and enduring than the love I feel for people.
"The Truest Love Poem I Shall Ever Write"
I’ve loved you since my childhood.
I’ll love you till I die.
Your immaterial material being
has made me laugh and cry.
I know each nook and corner,
I’ve walked each street and path.
And though I’ve left in person
I left behind one half.
I catch you in my thoughts
quite often unawares,
no matter where I am
I’m caught up in your snares.
I miss your tree-lined streets,
I miss your chimney smoke,
I miss the fog horns to whose sound
I oftentimes awoke.
I miss your tough, hard people
with their surprising warmth;
made me forget all want.
I miss you; yes, I miss you
wherever else I go;
You have me, I am yours
no matter where I go.
For I cannot forget you!
there’s no home left for me –
I could not stay with you
and no place else appeals to me.
I’m lonely all the time now
though not for want of folks –
for want of you, my hometown,
and your sweet, soothing voice:
The voice of sea gulls screaming,
of factories and fog horns –
the rhythm of my heartbeat;
the voice that calls me home.
There's hardly any need for an introduction for this poem.
"My Hair Falls"
My hair falls in heavy waves
like a red tide over my forehead
and covers my eyes halfway –
I should cut it, but if I did
the parts your hands swam through
would be cut away.
It may sound a slight bit dramatic, but nothing is added for dramatic effect. This is simply the impression I got, and I am trying to translate it to you as faithfully as possible.
"Raindrops Falling like People off the Roofs"
There’s raindrops falling like people off the roofs –
there’s ones I’ve known and ones you’ve known
that are no more.
We knew them – know them like we know the rain
in that short moment when it hits and one drop
bursts into a spray of its own rain when it hits us.
We know them that way, always will.
Much of the following has really happened to me. A fraction has not. Parts are left out. What's left out has been done so because I have focused as narrowly as I have on one sector of my life rather than on the whole.
"Confession of a Child Expected to be Straight"
My mother made me store up
copper coins for wedding shoes –
at three years old I told her then:
“I won’t need those when I don’t want a husband!”
She said: “You’re too young to understand,”
and with a condescending look of pity off she went.
I grew in size, grew round in places too
and caught the eyes of those I didn’t want
but went unnoticed by the ones I’d like to know –
when mother asked: “Are you in love?” I would deny:
“No boy has caught my eye,” (and it was true)
and thinking of the girl I liked I went.
Yes, this one girl I really liked; I brought her home as guest,
presented her to mother as my “friend”,
and halfway through the conversation mother then complained:
“Why don’t you have a boyfriend yet?”
My girlfriend laughed and went.
And then the day came when I went to see my mom
dressed in my very best suit, necktie, shirt,
desiring now at last to tell her who I was, but home
she greeted me with: “You look like a dyke!”
and with a look that’s half of pity, half of pain
each tore the other from her heart
and from her doorstep finally I went.
A rather personal poem (if you ask me I'd say it's the sweetest I've ever written) based on a comparison between K and the autumn leaves I currently have abundant opportunity to study in close-up.
Those golden autumn leaves –
I think of you –
your life a leaf of time itself
and sharing hue –
Your golden skin, angular bones –
a withered leaf –
the dewdrops on the leafs; your tears
that soon might cease
Your eyes that glitter amber-brown –
what life is left is here –
developments still going on;
there’s beauty there
As often before I am writing with an artist's perspective (as it is the easiest one for me to interpret).
There’s a glow of orange on the horizon –
a hidden city out of sight
undoubting housing countless nameless people unlike me
who doesn’t seek loneliness with every breath –
it’s right over there behind the trees;
right over there behind the shadow of the hill;
right over there beneath the glowing clouds
that give away its presence now to me –
and yet an endless waste away from me,
and if I went there I’d no more be me.
Protect my darkness! clouds, do not flame up
and give away my presence to the crowds;
dear sky, I’ll hide myself beneath your dome
invisible and undisclosed except for those who know me –
dear clouds, do not flame up like that;
leave me my rightful place alone;
leave me the quiet of the artist’s
peace and solitude; alone
It would be lovely if people I've loved in the past would consent to stay in the past where they belong instead of disrupting my sleep pattern.
Confusion is a fact of life, and when my mind forgets,
my dreams continue to remind me of the life I had;
I see you, see your smile again, and hear your voice again,
I feel you touch me, feel your skin, I love you yet again.
And when I went to sleep last night I was supposed to dream
but I gained no such thing; I went to work within my sleep;
I wrote and wrote about you and I meant each word I wrote,
but everything was washed away the moment I awoke.
I know I love you, even though I don’t know how or why;
I can’t remember, though I know; I forget when I try –
I’d like to just erase you, to move on and to forget,
but every time I sleep you still return and fill my head.