I see it not yet see it –
see the effects it makes
on sky and waves;
though I only really see a faint
pale light as out of nowhere
(like the fire of pale foam-bursts
telling me a reef is there but out of sight)
yet sun, you hide and I then wait
for you to show yourself instead.
Decay and transformation;
the world is based on these
as much as on creation
and therefore life must cease
and be restored in cycles
that we cannot explain
wherefore we make these stones;
so something does remain.
The gate is hanging,
walls are weathered;
nature takes its toll
as time goes by.
Yet memories are told
on every stone behind the wall,
on every one of the inscriptions –
that is all there is left
when the rest has transitioned.
The ground that greets you welcomes you
and why shrink back?
You have lived off of it throughout your life;
you’ll have to pay it back.
Why waste your life in fear
of something ever near?
I only ever once saw
one other painting which
by sheer technique
would move me
as much as this;
I didn’t come to see it
but there it was;
and admiration caught me
while off guard;
These fluent handled brushstrokes,
all the tones of brown and green,
the highlights, shadows; they evoke
a simple beauty like I’d never seen.
Evening falls upon the marsh
and sun sinks down behind the clouds;
a bluish belt on the horizon
over which the light still shows
Through reflections of the sunset
sails a boat that’s bound for home
while the trees’ dark silhouettes
upbear the sky’s colourful dome.
On the side it lies as if at rest after the voyage
and it seems so calm and peaceful –
were it not that I have learnt
in quite as hard a way as this ship
that the sea is treacherous
I should believe that it had fallen from the sky
all by itself –
And the moon shines and the water’s still
in calmest night
with not a member of the crew
anywhere in sight –
Goodbye dear mountains, valleys;
you landscapes I have known.
I’ll leave you since I must
and attend now to my own.
Beauty clad in all those hues
of brown – from dark to pale –
I trust you’ll wait for my return;
meanwhile I’ll pen my tale.
Though you can read there is no guarantee
that you should ever seek out word from me
though I have written countless poems too
solely addressing, solely seeking you.
But if in distant reach, in other country, you
should find my words and read them through
and understand the depths in which I sought
to gather them, and unto you them brought.
And if you should feel moved, if you should know
instinctually the span of space that go
directly from my heart to yours the moment when
you read my words – you read and comprehend,
then feel my warmth in words inlaid,
the deepest depths of feelings left unsaid
laid in-between my words as codes for you
to warm yourself at when you’ve read them through.
I write to you, address you best I can,
and with no guarantee you’ll understand,
though I can’t see your face nor read your mind,
wish you can nonetheless make sense of mine.
In rainy weather I remember
how she pulled over her head
the wide hood of her black coat
to protect her straightened hair
so that she wouldn’t take
the injury of curls
undone by rain and falling
to the wind in joyous whirls –
And whatever else she said
about the curse of curly hair,
I disagreed, but silently,
since I knew she wouldn’t hear
my words, if I were to say
that she was beautiful some day
I wanted to show you a different world,
a world full of beauty and longing,
so dreamlike that you’d never know it was real
till you fell asleep in the morning
But how can I show you when all that you see
is severed in two – quite broken?
Yes, how can I show you when you will not be,
and too never have been awoken?