Letter, June 28, 2016

Long before I met you I named you, Sofia; and your name, more than anything else, was an image grafted into my soul, a spaciousness wider than the sky. Sofia, you, the age of silence, a blue herald from beyond the ancient hills. Your hair, a forest floor covered in brown leaves, and a stream flowing by troubling the silence, hurling the being deeper in a sea of reveries. Your smile, shy and luring, eve’s apple holding the ancient promise; knowledge, in your bosom, the primal sin, the jewel for which man offers his blood for harvest and then sows it, red roses in your hair, red eddies swirling your soul a boundless sea.

Free Verse # 362 (poetry read)

قصيدتي
على ضفاف الفجر
،زهرة يتيمة
في الأثير الساكن عطرها
.صوت ينادي

~

This evening
as every other,
tea or coffee,
a book,
and you
a vein throbbing
with boundless longing.

~

Night is a pathway
leading to her heart

~

On the bridge
by the old house
a stranger writing
hymns to the sea;
his dripping words
leaves in the river
travelling on and on
for all eternity.

~

tumblr_o4mmymflGQ1ugkq36o1_500
Artist unknown

Poetry read…
words sipped
straight from your lips

~

What the breeze promised
the flowers at dawn
your fragrance laid
at the window of my soul

~

Dawn tremors,
her lips
a blooming flower
shaping the sky.

Wandering Thought # 32

A: The woman who allows the poet to write sets his soul ablaze.

B: Ah yes, that is until he stops appreciating her and treats her like a statistic, a number and the face of someone he once conquered. Not all writers, my friend, are delicate souls.

A: The poet is not a player. If he fools her with his words, there’s no heart to his poetry. But can a muse, who is an ocean, truly be fooled by a writer who is frightened even to wade her shallow waters? Can a muse fall for a poet who shivers before her terrible silence, and flees from her roaring waves?

The Wound of Love

Wound of infinite profusion
Her lips on my skin,
But skin here is a thought and allusion
To a sphere within,
And an earth that so intimately knows
The meaning of spring.

Thus seared my being becomes an image,
A brilliant red rose
Aligning the world with the lineage
Of love’s holy throes,
A blessed wound pronouncing existence
A fruit on her lips.

Free Verse # 361 (this longing is my saving grace)

Silence
is a sense of emergence,
the world
from the jar of dawn,
the heart
from the blue bud
of oceanic poetry.

~

Their bodies met and merged
into a bolt of lightning
scraping scorched
the earth and sky

~

Still, my heart,
hear her voice
whisper in the dark,
quiver the night
into a wave
lapping
the endless shore of love.

~

The fragrance of her skin –
a skirt of clouds
in the gust of each poem
lifting,
undone in the breath of love.

~

In your absence
the dark of my heart
I turned into a garden
that your naked feet
may one day tread
and bless the poem
waiting inside

~

In the shadow of her silence
the blue of dawn shivers,
the fragrance of a flower
awakening the world.

~

The remedy?
The rosewater of her kiss,
the fervency of her wine,
her articulate silence
speaking the earth and sky.

~

Foolish heart
in the evening wind
forsaken by all harbors,
whirling unchained
beyond the isles of love.

~

She stood there at sunset
by the edge of the sea,
her brooding eyes pouring
the blood of poetry.

~

Blue longing…
her skin shuddering
with the ache of the sea

~

You occupy my horizon
Like a wound full of blood