Month: November 2015

Free Verse # 337 (witchcraft in her lips)

Pierre Mhanna7 Comments

Into the ashes of the night
she presses her full lips
leaving a trail of aching stars

~

Her stretching spine
a violin-river,
the world dancing
to its quiver,
shivering in ripples
of music and rhyme.

~

Void of your breath
poems are just words,
dust scattered
in the blowing wind.

~

Of existence
all I know is your kiss,
the moon on your lips poised,
the fountainhead of stars.

~

She had witchcraft in her lips
and my poem ached for the sheathing
of their succulent plush

~

Earth of rain and mist
I remember you,
a touch of infinite softness
melting in my skin.

~

Tracing her skin
his fingers etch furrows
of liquid fire,
poems into her bloodstream
weeping
his aching love.

~

On my lips
her breasts
fruits of passion,
a fervent wine.

~

Night waxes
as your body against my own
shivers,
a flame in my blood
weeping
the ache of centuries,
crowning us the flower
of wine and poetry.

~

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Photograph by Ian Ross Pettigrew

In the fire of your eyes
poetry sheds her veils
and enters wordless,
its one desire to live
rooted in your heart.

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Free Verse # 336 (she wore his love)

Pierre Mhanna1 Comment

Like a sleepless night
I stretch along your shore,
my moonlight curving
along your seabed
raises your waters
into a citadel of fire.

~

Here I stand
without a shadow to cast
into the fading light of dusk,
my poem a rose
wilted from waiting.

~

Dawn,
inside my ribs
cold hands
shaking,
lulling out a star.

~

The day’s first cup of tea…
this vaporous breath I send,
a shawl wrapped around your body.

~

She wore his love
like a veil
unseen yet glowing,
transfiguring the world;
those who saw it
failed to understand.

~

Soaked in mist…
her skin a sea
of aching flowers

~

White night…
the moon in her flesh
a stream of fire

~

His touch in her skin,
a flame without a hush
burning…

~

Perfume is the flower’s victory; silence, poetry’s.

Free Verse # 335 (the sun of her love)

Pierre Mhanna5 Comments

As the day rolls I think of you,
your violin body
flowing through my own,
a river weeping tunes
of sadness and exquisite joy,
pure poetry.

~

Like wounded water
her body flows

~

I entered her,
a tree taking root
in its aboriginal soil,
its leaves now puddles
of burning blood,
its fruits the harness
of the world’s fires.

~

Over her breasts,
between her thighs
squeezing the moon
into gossamer streams
of poetic sighs,
sodden verses invoking
the sun of her love.

~

In the middle of the night I wake
and call out your name,
my throat a river of burning salt
aching to be balmed
in the warmth of your kiss.

~

He was a city of fog
where poems
like wounded birds
came in to die

~

Her sensuality she carries
like a mane of fire,
the roar of its flames
licking earth and sky,
harnessing all poems
to hang them in its fur
as brilliant stars.

~

Carnelian flame…
her lips staining
the silence of my heart

~

As his tongue
parted her pink petals
her back arched
and her lips sighed
like a sea swallowing the sun
to become the vapour
of eternity

~

She pulled him
against her neck
and the perfume
of her skin and hair
engulfed him,
in his breath
the spray of a sea
older than time itself.

~

I burn for her in a way fire never can.

~

My heart
a quiet corner
where a rose
teeming with your scent
blossoms and grows

~

At her touch
my bruises become
puddles of sky and water
where dawn and blue gardens
blossom and thrive

~

The candle’s flame
gathers my blood
into a nest of ache
fervently waiting
for her blood
to join my own

~

Autumn birds,
their solitary songs
playing in the woods
call us back
into a forgotten intimacy,
a language without words,
a speech of inner vibrancy.

~

Silence hovered about him
like an ashen, gray cloud,
and the hills leading into his world
were shadowy and steep,
clad in rumor and secrecy.

~

Dans ses cheveux
mon souffle
un oiseau étoilé

David Whyte – Sweet Darkness

Pierre Mhanna1 Comment

“When your eyes are tired
the world is tired also.

When your vision has gone
no part of the world can find you.

Time to go into the dark
where the night has eyes
to recognize its own.

There you can be sure
you are not beyond love.

The dark will be your womb
tonight.

The night will give you a horizon
further than you can see.

You must learn one thing.
The world was made to be free in.

Give up all the other worlds
except the one to which you belong.

Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness
to learn

anything or anyone
that does not bring you alive

is too small for you.”

— David Whyte, from The House of Belonging