Friday, 23 November 2012

Saturday, 17 November 2012


there is an autumn of luxuriance, of soft colours, deepened by rain and mist - 

an autumn which is but a different kind of spring, making me unsure of how time flows (and returns, always, to the same point). 






and there is an autumn of austere moods, of slow fading back to the roots of formlessness (except that there will always be, somewhere, quietly pulsing at the core of unadornedness, the blood of  berries - even in the snow its pulse will go on, a steady reminder of the same return). 

i am both autumns.


Monday, 12 November 2012

lightness & laughter

floating, she used to whisper ~

no weeds would dance more freely than her hair,
when the floods come to wipe away
every sin. no breath caressed the skin
 ~ or so she had convinced even the most indifferent lover ~
more ecstatically than her own
(more tenderly, when the moon was right).

when she was finally ready to see
that the sweet virtues of lightness were still
a lie, it was already too late:
they had all been fooled.
the lovers, even in the most ardent arms,
would still remember her breath and even the flood,
she feared, would carry her away with more grace
than a tree.

it was too late to protest, too late to explain:

quietly, she sat down in a corner
and burst into laughter.

Thursday, 8 November 2012

tomorrow, and tomorrow

time, of course, is nothing to her. "let's do this tomorrow", i hear myself say, and she asks quickly: is today tomorrow? before running away to play with the dog. and forgetting. i imagine every child has asked this question, i myself must have asked it a thousand times and then forgotten about it, until one day i could not forget any longer. i suddenly feel ridiculous, with my bittersweet knowledge and my clear-cut needs --- 

(and what with my unredeemable past)

(Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow 

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day 
To the last syllable of recorded time; 
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death)

on the table, the wasps are busy, between the yellow of a lemon slice and a sudden pouring of light.