The Want of Your Taste

Summer dawn,
your fragrance down my neck
streams in beads,
through the thin curtain a birdsong
breaks the silent sky,
gently rippling the dream
that carried me through the night —
Where am I?
In you, lost inside your grace,
travelling eternal,
a seed of silence
now become the sky.
What am I?
The first utterance on your lips
when creation was yet
a mere figment of your imagination.
Why am I here?
To sing your pain and joy,
your endless glory,
and touching you be
all that I can be
in a life that fades more quickly
than lightening in the sky.
I now wake to make my cup of tea
and prepare my breakfast,
your ocean is moving inside of me,
or is it I stirring inside your ocean?
To the horror of reason
inward and outward lose distinction
and I cannot keep myself together,
cannot maintain my own skin
so I surrender and give in
to the sheer enormity of your presence.
I find myself diluted inside of you
as the hot tea breathes on my face,
as the dry fruits tease my tongue
with the want of your taste.

For your sake poets sequester themselves, Rainer Maria Rilke

“For your sake poets sequester themselves,
gather images to churn the mind,
journey forth, ripening with metaphor,
and all their lives they are so alone…
And painters paint their pictures only
that the world, so transient as you made it,
can be given back to you,
to last forever.

All becomes eternal. See: In the Mona Lisa
some woman has long since ripened like wine,
and the enduring feminine is held there
through all the ages.

Those who create are like you.
They long for the eternal.
They say, Stone, be forever!
And that means: be yours.

And lovers also gather your inheritance.
They are the poets of one brief hour.
They kiss an expressionless mouth into a smile
as if creating it anew, more beautiful.

Awakening desire, they make a place
where pain can enter;
that’s how growing happens.
They bring suffering along with their laughter,
and longings that had slept and now awaken
to weep in a stranger’s arms.

They let the riddles pile up and then they die
the way animals die, without making sense of it.
But maybe in those who come after,
their green life will ripen;
it’s then that you will inherit the love
to which they gave themselves so blindly, as in a sleep.

Thus the overflow from things
pours into you.
Just as a fountain’s higher basins
spill down like strands of loosened hair
into the lowest vessel,
so streams the fullness into you,
when things and thoughts cannot contain it.”

— Rainer Maria Rilke, translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy

The Placeless-ness of Love

We dreamed of a lonely house
Where love alone knows our name,
Away from the noise and crowd
We would knit our passion’s flame.

Lost amid the silent hills
Oh the altar we would make!
For the fire of poetry
To rise and the world to shake.

My love, this house is no place,
It is wherever we are,
Its ground revolves deep within
Like the light of the first star.

Therefore when you are lonely
Place your hand upon your chest
And within feel us shining
Our sun joining east and west.

A song to a lost lover, the lovers we often are.