Tanka # 94

In the cold of winter
my sister’s grave,
the jacket she got me
warming my skin.

Free Verse # 393 (her poem had a bee sting)

Between us time leaps
in long lapses,
the words we write now
we exchanged in kisses
a thousand years ago,
our fingertips
now touching unlock
the house of eternity.


Her poem had a bee sting
wrapped in its tail;
finishing it I could feel
my tongue and lips swell,
and could read nothing else
for days, for days.


Girl with a sword,
girl with a pen,
girl whose fragrance
is a sword and a pen,
and O the ink!
O the blood!
girl blazing
an innocent smile.


A thousand years old poem;
my heart a leaf trembling
as the wind blows
from the abyss of the past,
how fresh the wound,
how poignant the red fragrance
of the gleaming rose.


My aloneness,
the heaviness of my heart,
a wisp of smoke vanishing
in the fragrance of our touch.

Unfree Poet

In my solitude I live,
The mortal wound which the knife
Of dame poetry did give
Bleeds a sea around my isle.

‘Who would venture into me?’
In starry nights and lone dawns
My waves in rattling chains sing
The clutch of infinity.

What am I? An adventure
Though a prisoner I be,
And the dungeon holding me
Burns aquiver with dawn-light.

Unfree thoroughly, and yet,
You tears, you fire, I do bless,
And pray the ache in my chest
Spread you wider poetry.

Wandering Thought # 45

A man who can only love or hate a woman, or a certain kind of woman, suffers an impotence of will. What leads him to her and what in her cripples him is a certain lack in his emotional and sexual life. His maturity is the maturity of his will, his ability to choose, and be aware of the moment where his choice is made, and his will to go one way or another activated.