Letter, January 28, 2018

Poetry has delivered me into the intuition of her light – She is God’s divine light shining through me. I feel her and I feel into the heart of being. And the words that then arise are like the foam rising from that experience, her in me, me taken into her. That is how it feels in my heart. And so poetry whispers – light is what we are. Words are like veils lifting, leaving us in the embrace of the naked experience underneath. The more we open to the experience, the light, the more our words change and deepen. I exist as this act of deepening into this light. This, for me, is poetry. And the light is her; the radiance of the divine.

La femme que j’aime n’existe pas

La femme que j’aime n’existe pas
et pourtant je ne peux abandonner
ma recherche pour elle ;
et ça, cette recherche,
ce pèlerinage infini
qui va comme un cercle
tournant et tournant
au milieu du cœur de l’amour –
cette brulure, ce délire,
cette espérance futile mais inépuisable –
c’est le poème –
l’offrande de mon âme
dans le feu de son autel.

Free Verse # 421 (stay with me)

is that great distance
which, separating me from you,
reveals to me the boundless
heart of love


My poem remembers you
like a drop of water recalls
being one with the sea


I write
because I need to feel my fingers
caressing your skin,
because the poem
is my only way
to be with you,
to tell you what I
in my infinite solitude
can tell no one.
I write
because you understand.


Que notre sensualité, amour,
soit douce dans sa férocité,
tel le rêve qui anime
les fonds de la mer,
telle la chaleur dans le souffle
des fleurs à l’aube.


Stay with me,
the night is silent,
my ribs are cold,
and solitude is a lover
who doesn’t play right.
Stay with me,
the tea is steaming,
the poem is warm,
and love is a flower
that grows in your light.