The Mystery of Your Ways

By the jasmine tree,
under the moon at dawn
I am waiting for you,
your silence since long
arrived before you
but only now
have I begun to hear
the whisper of your voice,
your silence since long
announced your presence
but only now
am I beginning to feel
the freshness of your breath,
and as I walk away at last,
as I walk away
into the rising day
a strange power carries me on
almost like a wave,
imperceptible, unexplainable,
asking me to let go,
to trust and surrender
to the mystery of your ways.


Letter, August 13, 2017

Tell them I spent my life banished amid the pages of books, reading, feverishly, fluttering like a firefly amid words of darkness and light. Tell them that in the pages of books I found myself entangled like a bee stuck in honey, like a lover’s fingers in his beloved’s hair. Tell them that, contrary to what they think, it is no wasted life, it is a life of solitary abundance, a life of living at the source of what makes humanity great, and what makes life worth striving for, worth living. Tell them that I have been blessed, to read, to be able to read a fragment of that which is truly, spiritually great. Tell them that in an age of anxiety, of spiritual crisis, I have dared, through books, to gaze at the future, to imagine a different future, and that through these visions I strived to birth and live my life, my present, my spirit and state of mind. Tell them, beloved, that amid the pages of books I have loved and been loved, made friendships the likes of which are so rare on earth, shed tears, oh so bitter tears, rejoiced and found a joy that is simple like flowers and grass growing in a fallow field. Tell them, beloved.

Because Love Has to Be Given

What have you been doing all these years?—
Because love has to be given,
I have been writing to an imaginary lover,
Exhausting into ink the infinite longing
In my aching heart.

Why prolong and deepen your suffering?—
Because love has to be given,
And he who hasn’t felt the urge
Will not know this overpowering need,
Will not know that this urge to give
Is the primal reason of his being,
The motor of his life.

Is this not creating a schism with reality?—
That, my friend, to the sober minded
Is indeed the only possibility,
But I beg you, with whatever heart there is in you
Feel into the grandness of this vision,
Try and glance into its depth and light,
As it takes hold of you
Feel how above and beyond
All psychological and rational chatter it is;
Its reason lies in the irrationality of the heart,
And whoever does not know it will not know
How the heart grasps and lives its truth.

How can you deprive yourself of girls for the sake of love?—
Your eye immediately veered towards the denial
And this, my friend, betrays you,
Speaks your own limited but healthy state of mind,
It saddens my heart to see you so belittled,
A speck instead of the mountain and the sea
Which are open to you — if you only dare!
If your desire was not so limited
As to apprehend the desire of the flesh
But not of the soul!

No, there is deprivation here, my friend, no denial,
Here we rise only on the strength of an affirmation,
Here the dark cloud of denial will not be allowed
To tarnish the face of the beloved,
Here only the affirmation of love sways
And on the strength of this affirmation
New modes of valuation are shaped,
And a new vision of life is possible
And a higher principle of health
Is indeed acquired!

Ah, but how can I plant it in you, my friend,
The holy seed of envy
That will crack your soil and raise you
To the height of a vision
That you have barely allowed yourself to entertain?
In this age of players why not be a lover?
In this age that values most of all the pleasure of the moment,
The pleasure of the immediate,
Why not think the impossible and strive towards that
Which grows stronger even in its pain and ache?

My wish is for a thorn in your heart
And for a hammer that breaks it!
My wish is for you to rise to your own height
And learn the mastery of your impulses,
The control and sublimation of your desires,
So that, one day, and if you are lucky enough,
You may offer your whole life
On the banquet of love.

Lettre, Juin 18, 2017

Je suis un flâneur dans le corps de la femme unique. S’il y a de l’herbe, des déserts, des îles, des montagnes, des forêts, des cités, des histoires, des galaxies, et des immensités, c’est toujours dans son corps, et voilà la passion secrète qui est l’élan vitale de mon esprit, ma vie, et mon humble poème.

Ma conscience du monde c’est monde en tant que femme, corps et cœur de femme, l’infini et l’éternel de ses entrailles, de son essence, l’océan qu’elle est, et qui est le défi pour l’homme et le marin en moi. La femme ne peut jamais être conquis, acquis, elle effleure seulement dans l’acte de danser avec elle, lui écrire des poèmes, voyageant ses horizons océanique avec ma virile conscience et passion. Une femme n’a pas de fin. Sa présence brûle comme l’encens dans le cœur de Dieu. Et alors, je la poursuis, je l’aime jusqu’à la mort, au-delà de toute mort.

Silent Dithyramb

In the still night
my heart surrounding her
is stiller still,
a dithyramb composed
of an infinite yearning,
a longing deeper
than the womb of the sun.

My heart surrounds her
with the tranquil charm
of the silent sea at dawn,
as my touch in wave after wave
falls upon her skin,
languidly burning,
my breath wrapping her
like a dreaming cloud.

Now she sleeps,
and as her eyes close
her other eyes open,
wide awake
inside the infinite landscape
of poetry’s own heart.

I write for an imagined reader

I write for an imagined reader,
An immanent being
Inside the words, within the writing.

I write propelled by a longing
For someone who cannot exist,
Living and martyred by this longing,
Irrational to persist and nurture
What cannot be brought to fruition,
Caressing an illusion,
A shadow swiftly passing
Into the fading light of dusk,
There and not there,
Appearing in its very act of disappearance.

And yet, for all of its agony,
The poem cannot hold her tongue
Nor dry away its fervent blood,
So I write, a whirling mass of solitude
In a sky inhabited by the whiteness of silence,
And the suffering heart goes on
Suffering, alone, untouched,
Fired by who? Fueled by what?
Eaten by its own desire to give and touch
And the ghost breathing inside the words
Promising the enigma of a human touch.

Je t’écris

Je t’écris
comme un moine dans son cloitre
parle avec Dieu,
comme les arbres dénudés
touchés par le printemps
fleurissent durant la nuit.

Je t’écris
le soupir des jasmins
sous le caresse de la lune,
le feu doux de l’aube
dans les gorges des oiseaux.

Je t’écris
comme un poète remplis
par l’âme du poème,
comme une flamme de chandelle
dont le souffle éteint
les larmes de la nuit.

Je t’écris
parce que l’amour ose
être tout ce qu’il peut
dans un monde sans rêve,
parce que l’amour vit
dans l’éternité de Dieu.