sublime

Northern Winds

Jakub Schikaneder’s Snow (Twilight in Winter) 1899

Then

happened a soft autumn day

where I let my untamed foot fall

off the silk edge of my ordinary bed,

to let it fight with the tarnished wooden door

hunch-backed by a snoring inverter

when past the dust-coughing jail-skins,

there came a ruffle from the

dark of tall surmounting trees

necromanced

nodding outside,

breathing on my ankles,

in all oddity of the oncoming winter.

 

Then I had dug under the culture’s paws

Asked them, of what of the Winter gloom—

That gentleman

So languid upon my prickling skin,

In me,

He had protected life.

 

 

Now

There rests a diabolical caress

Of sandpaper bed-sheets

Till my feet are sore

From the coaling livers of the winter-verse.

Oh, to look for light switches in the dreadful dead-dark,

Paranoid chants that the curtains must not move—

All my sacred pathos intruded

Into the

Red demonstration of corpse-like darkness.

 

Do the old—as the Laker Poet once cried—must only lament what can no longer be felt?

 

Again

In my heart, I invite

The night

I had shut down my famished words

Again, a prayer

To be fertilized with meaning, I ink

I conjure up my sprite:

In the hearth of a breathing cold

The tepid haunt of a sea nymph

Misplaced

Upon one changing breeze of the earth

Colluding with mist,

Into a body of unknown

That I uncloak, even though I am dressed

In great perspiration

I try

Once again

to reclaim the night.

 

Author Notes

I had an epiphany just now. I actually had a dream about different models of ceiling fans today–funny that I must write a poem dictated by the winds.

‘Something watches and stirs in the dark, it is alive.’

A sublime affair

A space overcomes me

 

I was sitting beside the lemon detergents

When I slipped by my elbow

and found myself upon a cotton tree,

long killed by one milk-selling municipal lady

 

Upon the highest branch,

his hair became the dark of the clouds.

a sullen autumn around, afraid I looked.

Two hushed stars in his bottomless eyes,

and he said,

it was summer still.

 

Upon a grain of thunder, he sprawled like an ocean current

And gasping like the roar itself, gave out his steep palms

Out of which a waning lily coiled out,

a ladder escaping from his fingertips,

as if the guitarist’s chords

tied up by the hair of heaven

 

I gave my heart to this man who was no-man

But a space, that overcomes me.

 

Every rainy night,

as they say,

I forget to breathe

And in me lays the flower, finally awake.

 

Stepping out in the Stormy

image

There is a tunnel inside my heart
Without a lover with a clock;
I cast upon it
the glue of sedimentation
Here, nothing is unsettled
Here, words are perfume from
Clanking wooden doorways
Magnetic with presence of
a vast entity from beyond.

He lays upon my skin,
Tendrils sharp,
Laborious with love
Of a self disclosed
Of the Vast
To the miniscule.

There is a tunnel inside my heart
With a lover without a clock;
There, all divisions take a truce
There, I am your reader
And you are my poet.