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.

On the Cusp of Spring

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.

The Ocean Within Her

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.

Letter, March 12, 2017

Woman, by virtue of being woman, casts a light upon the world — and we poets, aware and ravished by the sacredness of her ray, find our hearts burning and our words rising like smoke from within the burning. And what do all poets hope for?—well, their life at its deepest root aches to get to the source of her light, to travel her white stream upward and back into the source, the core. This, poets with a fine intuition know can only be achieved through and with a single woman. Women are many but woman, in a sense, is one. The woman the poet loves, writes his heart to, and in whose light he lives is one and provides him with the highest possible unification of life. Through her he asserts himself and reaches his peak and harmonizes his strength; through her he becomes more than a poet, he becomes a man, and, dare I say, achieves his freedom and independence of women. He finds his calling in the arms of the greatest woman of all — life. What woman entices him from now on?—the woman whose light is so ravishing that, in her presence, he feels that the physical world cannot contain him anymore. You, my love, are such a woman.

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.