The Web Poetry Corner
The Web Poetry Corner
Oxford, England, UK
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Was ich erbat, das Helle, so Verklaerte,
wie Engelsschwingen leicht, es kam zur Nacht
und hielt mich wach, und was mich so verzehrte,
das brach, ich habe nicht mehr nachgedacht
ueber weshalb, warum und das Woher.
Ich lag und was du schicktest, flog umher
und tastete mich weich und gab mir Schein.
Ich lag, und alles fiel mir wieder ein,
alle Gedanken, all das was wir haben und hatten
und jenen Schatten, der mir Zweifel gab,
verscheuchtest du mit einem Fluegelschlag,
und unerkannt entflogst du in der matten
Daemmerung, und als die Helligkeit vom Tag
hereinbrach, wurde mir so leicht, wie einem Kind.
Alles Gefuehl, das war wie aufgeweicht,
gelockert und zerflossen , schwereleicht,
und trocknete geloest,wie Haar,im Morgenwind.
Silence fell long ago
from the skies onto the Torcal,
when sunlight ripped the curtains of clouds,
suddenly, to expose the gateways
where stars once floated,
now jagged rocks as far as the eye
can make out, cocking their fingers
to remind of the fate that befalls,
all quiet in the amphitheatre,
all waiting, where the wind
plays the rock rose carelessly
while the trees orchestrate
silence in ambush.Watch thistles
and peonies there in the gullies
competing. Look up where the lonely
eagle might fly to arbitrate.
Always hold your breath when
embracing the stone that once
had been star and remember:
this may be the only time
you dare feel alive.
A stained glass mirror
A stained glass mirror leant against a wall
obscured from view, obscured by meaning,
its colours dulled by artificial light: a leaning
towards dithering as we do in life, and all
so painfully become aware of cracks, of fall,
of mere deceptions, showing back projection
from depth, transformed by newly gained reflection
upon the polished surfaces of our being.
When we returned to see
What had been seen before, reflected
in the cracked lines of curved mirror glass,
gone was that brilliant light that shone in eyes
and lit by mutual flames! Alas, do they belie,
deny the past and show the hourglass of time
as blocked and suddenly impossible impasse?
You stood there by the mirror, motionless,
a mere deception, kept your truth inside,
inside this frame, as everything you hide
When self and mirror image coincide
I think I'll leave you there, as day draws to conclusion,
the picture that I saw: as cast in awe,
discard it as a powerful illusion
and take away your image in the draw
of passion burnt into the crystal ball of mind
where you remain, complete, a still impression,
and when I search, you're always there to find_
The mirror's cracked reflections cause confusion.
You promise silence after lifeís long race
unless you strike before, carry away
your booty noisily after a chase
or be it, someone leaves one autumn day
to choose the only and the lonely way
that as he knows, will lead him to your base.
The roads are never emptying of those
who long for peace like searching for a rose
that flowers only once a century.
They, endlessly in rows, are following close
your lead to quietness, your eternity.
I saw their tracks, winds blowing through their coats
giving them wings, majestic sailing boats,
but when they landed, everything was still
and when they lay, a silence, to fulfil
your promise with a quiver in their throats.
All you have to do is come for me,
like the evening comes, held by trees,
all protective and all tenderly.
Bring your softness in an orange fleece,
sweet with birdsong, darkening, nocturnal,
change into your night-blue starry coat
that reminds forever the eternal
and rise skywards in your rowing boat.
All you have to do is come for me
at the edge of heaven we will meet,
carry on our journey to eternity,
past the moon and stars at our feet.
Song of Autumn
Ah, those emerald ephemeral days, they pass
with seasons! The early autumn months
where greens have reason to convert to gold.
A trace of blood imbues the speckled scene
with thought like dabbled shades of sadness,
yet caught by hope that lifts: we think about
the innocence of spring, of memories, exuberance
of summer, a song whose echoes remain faintly
in the air. It is not how to grow but how to know
to live, not how to strive but how to feel the moments
that abound, not how to squander time, but how to keep,
conserve for darkening days and the long sleep.
Before weíre torn away, a sense, we have arrived
at autumn forests, filled with summerís glory,
retaining such of it as will endure. Springs are
too young, summers too proud. A mellow autumn
nearer to the heart, not loud, but muted, wise,
knowing its limitation, rising into the sap of fruit,
grown by experience, sown by all lifeís means,
ampler than all. Its greens enthral with strength,
its orange with content, its purple speaks of fall,
of stillness, slowing breath, of peace, of death.
Old Navajo Games
Spider Woman taught string games to keep thoughts in order,
only in winter, when spiders sleep, or else will she tie
your eyes shut. You will learn about the night sky, concentrate
on star clusters, find planets in your weaving patterns:
the earth is my mother, the sky my father. Star pinching,
the pattern to follow, Female Arrowhead,
Big Snake, Lightning, Cloud. Weave in
the sacred four colours: white for dawn, blue for the day,
yellow for twilight, black for night.
Weave on child, weave the universe in motion,
play your string games, your sand games
in perpetual regeneration. Breathe child, breathe
the sacred act of breathing! The Holy Wind is everywhere,
in all the living, nothing exists in isolation. It is h0zh=.
you long for, the good and the evil, the natural
and supernatural in balance, connectivity to all
living things. Follow the starsí constellations,
Scorpio, Cassiopeia, The Pleiades, Aldebaran,
Canis Major, Ursa Major, Sword of Orion
they all touch your body, each one its part assigned,
filling the space of your transitory nature.
Learn them, chant them, weave them into your memory.
They will remind you how to live your life,
not the emotionally overtaxing, the highly pressured, materially
oriented, the spiritually depleted. Seek your escape,
and solace from the fast paced, media blitzed world!
Walk in beauty, not the outward appearance
but order, blessedness, pleasantness
everything that lifts you. Reach an old age by living
in harmony with the universe.
Breathe child, breathe the holy act of breathing
On breathing, the powerful wind will enter.
Fingerprints and toe prints are its signals.
The whorls at the tips of your toes hold you to the Earth.
those on your fingertips hold you to the Sky.
This wind brings you thought at conception,
When it ceases to blow inside you, you become speechless.
Draw your string figures, child, move and complete them
until Spider Woman will help to dissolve all.
The illicit loversí act
Moments in difficult places
of access, more hideout than hidden,
where lovers competing forever
to perform their advances, the clever
pulling of heartstrings, possessing
their mind-enhanced buildings,
and guessing the tilt of the towers of lust.
Steadying their quivering ladders
they only lean hard on each other,
their grounding unstable and muddy,
for water they need on the off chance
when they throw the flat stones of endurance
thus rewarding each leap on the surface
that bounces unhindered and further.
But eyes all around in the bushes
and trees of surveillance keep judging
each act with suspicion. Approval
stays far off their playground not sharing
their brazen hot air ballooned daring,
unable to pay them their tribute
for smiling and beautiful gestures.
Evening by a lake
When I go for the evening skies
I arrive where deep-down
I already am, on the pink and orange
wavelength where thought and feeling merge,
where the currents of mind determine
a heartís flight, undulating
from the high to the low,
before settling on the darkening waters,
next to the cormorant or
the silhouettes of dusky sea-birds against
the flickering water. See
how more and more flocks
come in from the violet east
crossing the luminous skies and how
they glide softly without a noise and
without even beating their wings,
more and more swooping thoughts,
they circle the light-rippled lake,
put silent dots onto the sheath
of glittering silver,
as dots within a sentence
that are awaiting conclusions,
pending, pondering and gently
welcoming meaning: the last sunrays.
There, an array of possibilities, but always
this tang of unlaundered light
until I find it - the blood drenched hour,
when the night shakes me awake.
I suck it in, liquid spectrum,
for I am thirsty as if I went for days
carrying along someoneís elseís thirst
that would dry me out.
I do not think that a mouth
other than mine would blister
where I drink from the sky,
where I bite out cloud shapes, nuzzle
currents of tangible light
to my heartís soft lips, where
I taste the pure dusk, devour
darkness and find, what I came for,
in an explosion of geese, as I walk past,
that lingers on for a mile
in the sharp breath of the night.
I am at home
I am at home between the day and dream,
there, where the children sleep, all hot from play,
there where old people reminiscing stay
in front of fires with their face a-gleam.
I am at home between the day and dream,
there, where the silences restore the mind,
where trees are bowing in the evening wind
and grasses glow under the pale moon beam
A willow tree close by a gurgling stream
is where I feel I really do belong,
where my lifeís summers fade in autumn song
and grow again as echo in a dream.
A Year flown out
Do you not sense the autumn wind that falls
across your grave in sighs, bereft of breath,
to mourn a second time your death? Will
winterís freeze break up my frozen heart
to smithereens with its sharp biting chill?
Or still, when winter finally is strangling earth,
frost-bitten in a rage that knows no ease,
then should I hold my breath to be like you?
Would I then gasp and choke, my lungs
imbued with April rains, my grief iced up,
and only thawed by tears that stain my face
accrued upon your grave in liquid pain?
I plant forget-me-nots and lilies-of the valley,
and think of springís reviving strength, itís here,
yet I can see no blooms at all, your face
in bloom, as earlier, haunts everywhere.
Summer has come and gone, the sun too faint
to penetrate the sorrow, light the haze
in which I live as if thereís no tomorrow,
one day indifferent from the next, a cloud that stays.
Autumn is back. A year flown out. The crimson leaves
bedeck your bed as trails of blood on ashen soil,
the turmoil of last year, no less, as when
I first stood here, embroiled, to say good bye..
Hopi Dreams and the red star Kachina
There had been a writing in the stars...
Before the storms broke there were forecasts.
Three children on the way to the fields
were carried away by the flood. A woman
tending her orchard was killed by a stone wall,
blizzards rushed out of nowhere. The prairies
were flattened by an angry wind..
There had been a writing in the stars
Our ancestors had translated away in time.
In their earlier days, there were floods too, and sickness,
sudden death from fever, tragedies with no name
all the reasons were there:
failure to trust in the Great Spirit, selfishness
and lack of love for oneís brothers,
unkept promises to lead a simple life.
Repeated and repented since Maasau had breathed life
into man, cause and effect in perpetual change,
knots looping back throughout generations.
Now we fortify our houses with sand
around our walls and move by canoe
through the newly sprung waterways.
Our daughters think it strange to paddle where once
the roads were leading to their school, their playground,
now totally submerged.
There runs a fast flowing river,
dangerous in its currents. Suffering and fear
keeps many holding on to the shore
but the elders say let go and swim, with your eyes
open and your head above the water
and praise the courage of those
who swim with you and celebrate.
We are not important as we are
just uniting in one spirit
and harmony, where all living belongs to.
The time of the lone wolf is over.
Let us not struggle but celebrate
and touch and dwell on our Hopi dreams
by living a simpler life in love with our brothers.
For when the red star Katchina,
lights up the sky, we will be ready.
Our souls rejoice, our bodies are prepared
for the long journey. The day will come
when the wingless ship touches down
for us who hold the earth sacred
and fly us home to a safe new world.
Become an Indian again
Where buffaloes sleep in the tall grass
is the presence of our ancestors.
They tell me to seek endurance, catch a butterfly,
chase grace as I gallop my horse.
I pluck the butterfly from the sky,
rub its wings against my heart,
and ask for swiftness and courage.
We are proud people but we are invisible
to the outside world.
My grandfatherís skin is smooth
as the earth's surface
and in passing the bow
he gives me love.
My elders put my heart in front of their heart
showing ways to a good life.
I emerge from the soft glow of the fire,
cleanse my spirit.
Pride and ignorance
have led me away from my people
and their past.
We have lost the old way
that has brought my people here;
so I sit with the old one as he sings,
and his old ways of dancing helps me
become an Indian again.