This wandering world…
through the parting clouds
the hermit moon
~
Dans les plis de sa peau
le grain d’encens brule…
poésie
~
Midlife…
deep in the woods
the hermit’s thatch calling
~
What have I to offer?—
years of silence,
the face of the moon.
~
Between life and death
the falling rain
keeps falling
~
My best lines
read by no one…
dust in the wind
I feel the press of your breasts and soft skin around me, everywhere, coaxing me to flower into you the erection of my body, the life of my poetry. Your light comes in flashes of intuition, falling upon my face as through the sunlit openings of an orchard, and I heed with the attentiveness of my whole body, the animal soul in me. Your dew falls like an erotic enchantment and a buoyancy comes like a fountain rising from the depth of my soul; suddenly I find myself harnessed in shafts of wheat upon the altar of your body, ready to burn, ready to become dough and bread, ready to feed upon the milk of your breasts and the honey of your skin. Your body is the world, the element I am living in, moving through, and this eros, this tension between us mercilessly opens me and challenges me to become in the thrust the man that I am. So I take you, as I give myself to you, as through you I slingshot myself into the sky of eternity.
Woman of silk and fire, woman of milk and honey suckling my wildest desire.
Year after year
learning the silence
of poetry,
a language inscribed
in her skin.
Don’t turn the lights off!
on her deathbed pleading
with darkness in her voice
Elle tombe et retombe…
sur ses lèvres affamées
la pluie de ses mots
His poetry
veiled her eyes
and poured into her heart,
back arched and hurled deep
into the sky of orgasm
he fired the chakra of her belly,
the sun of life.
Radiance embodied
she then moved,
forming and transforming
everything around her,
a world reshaped
in the image of love.
~
Amid the folds
of her skin
his rough beard
pricking
as his lips,
famished,
move in circles
grazing her flower
and melting her
into a seething moan
bursting with the ink
of his poetry.
~
I want to kiss you
as on the first day
when spring flowered
in the bosom of life,
when birds learned to sing.
~
I am a cloud roaming
the meadows of your silence.
~
My poem…
the light of a candle
slowly gathering
in the silence of her heart.
~
If I cannot cry
let these words be my tears
pooling in your cup
the fervency of my longing
~
When I am down
I breathe in and out
as deeply and widely as I can,
centering myself
in the clarity of her light,
the intuition of eternity.
~
Even when old I wish to die in the youth of poetry.
Though it often hides itself behind a veil of humanism, it is the mark of a tortured soul, this need to identify with every suffering and struggling cause. Through this identification it prolongs its own torture, finding new means to discharge its weariness; and where new causes cannot be found new causes must be invented, lashes of evil imagined here and there, imagined villains that must be vanquished. The suffering soul only betrays itself with the vehemency with which it wishes to expunge all suffering.
Her falling dress
a breath of fog and dew
lacing the forest,
naked she then wades
the blue water of dawn,
in the kiss of her skin
the morning sun rising.
In countless streamlets
the fire of her fragrance
replenishes my inkwell,
out of the hardness of stone
coaxing my will to rise
and face the world again,
shape the world anew
out of the depth
of my love and passion,
the maturity of my manhood,
the rejuvenating vigor of her presence
flowering in my heart,
pervading my being
with the light of eternity.
She went out today
radiant in the light of the sun
his hands labored to plant
inside of her,
her body a forest
burning with the desire
that gave the stars their light,
her breasts
a spring heaving
in countless red moans,
on her lips and skin
the indelible wine of his kisses
seethed like a velvet cloud of incense
permeating with its fervent aroma
the inside of her bones.
The ocean of his poetry was within her
and the ocean could not be contained,
it flowed and overflowed
as she moved like a fountain,
a cup flooding with the primal source,
the liquid that gave love its reputation,
the blessed light
upon which time in vain
would try his teeth and moan,
vanquished! vanquished!
a rain of jasmines
falling from her hair
and calling the world
to come and drink
and again be whole.
منسلاً عند الفجر
القمر فوق السطوح مداعبا
عري جسدها
~
صرخة الغراب
وردة سوداء
في حقل الربيع
~
The crow’s caw
a black rose swaying
in a field of flowers
Mother of all bombs…
I believe in the strength
of a small flower
~
Dawn…
in the dew of her moan
the soaking world
His poetry made her thaw,
now she flows
with the wildness of a river
in the ocean of his arms,
the radiance of her love soaking
all the corners of his life.
~
Through the folds of dawn
her silence comes,
a dream, a memory.
~
Let night between us be
A moving sea of poetry
~
His love
a wave swelling inside of her,
rushing through her limbs,
flowing, flowering,
laying her open
at the center of his altar,
a seething flame.
~
Whatever the inspiration
the poem is always her,
a star-seed in the sea
of her poetry.
~
Cocooned in his love,
the flame of the goddess
ablaze in her body,
her skin against his shore
shuddering with the fire
of a thousand thousand waves.
~
Tangled in the poem as in my lover’s hair.
كلما ذهبت الريح بعطرها
انغرس الخنجر
قليلا في قلبي
The ocean at night, a poem without a skin.
~
Sleepless in this longing
the desire that leaves me aching
for the dew of her silken thighs,
the ink of my poetry.
~
Weaving the candle’s light…
a shawl around her neck,
a dress to adorn
the curves of her nakedness.
~
Her womb
the ocean calling
all his rivers,
their flow
an electric surge
coursing her skin,
carrying the fires
of ancient altars
to the roots of her desire.
His swollen heat,
his tidal flow,
a surge in her belly
rippling concentric,
deeper than the ocean,
wider than the sky.
~
Solitude
to write, to live,
to breathe again,
to find myself open
to the light of the sky,
a poet wanderer,
a bird of passage.
~
Making love
and recording our voices
reading poetry,
Rumi, Neruda,
and the fervent silences
of our merging lips.
~
ضياء القمر
بحار تائه
في أسود شعرها
~
Her healing presence,
merging with him
she lights his fire
when it dwindles,
unafraid of his dark
she sees into him,
moves into him,
rooting his heart
in her boundless love.
رائحة المنتور والياسمين
وصوتك عند الفجر
هدوء بحر أعمق
من السماء والأرض
~
نشوة بيضاء…
سكون صوتك في قلبي
عند انبلاج الفجر
~
Man child…
poet wandering
the isles of the wind
~
A little late to rise…
in the dark of her hair
the tangled moon
لفح عطرها
لم يبق من قلبي
الا وهج نار متقدة
على مذبح العشق
وها نار حبها
في شراييني تمددت
حتى لم يبق مني
الا تأوه الأزهار
مع انبلاج الفجر
الريح تأتي
والريح تذهب
وأنا ههنا أحترق
في ماء عطرها
أضلعي ودمائي وحياتي
عني في حبها ذابت
ذوبان الصلاة
في فم الخمر
الله في جسدها
وجسدها في الله
في ضوءها عرش الوجود
ومصدر الخلق
الشعراء
قصائدهم تبعثرت
كأوراق الخريف
عالم لم يبق منه
الا ضياء المغيب
Her blouse open,
two cherries topping
the poem he inked
in the garden
of her breasts.
Rooted in Love 