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.

Free Verse # 391 (I’m scared of loneliness)

My cold hands shivering
on words that will not come,
and your thighs
a summer sheath calling me
to spill it all within,
a bonfire of ink and wine.

~

A full moon reigns
and I am in a strange land,
my hand
through her dark curls
sifting,
searching
for forgotten memories.

~

Whenever in my pen
no ink is there to write
I search to find it
etched to a slow burn
on the curves of your lips,
in the wellspring of your eyes.

So I call you a thieve
and kiss your hands,
break my pen and throw it,
and journey into you,
to the source of poetry.

~

I am a poet
running barefoot
in a city of broken stars
searching for the candle
burning in your window,
aching for your touch.

~

Fire’s ash
The dust of snow
It all will pass
High or low
And all the seeds
We reap and sow
Are in the moments
When in love we grow

~

The shadow of her hair
in the evening breeze,
her voice from afar
in the heart of the mist
sounding an invisible bell.

~

Her smile was the fragrance
missing from my life,
the shaft of light
that could pierce
the cloud of my soul.

~

Snug against my neck…
her perfume in the morning
a candle’s burning breath

~

Winter night…
here and there the scattered
ashes of poetry

~

My wound aches
for the sear
of the fire in her lips

~

I’m scared of loneliness, so I write to be with you.

Artist & Temptress

Let them search for you
in their socially acceptable
and well-ordered places;
I look for you in the dirt
since you are the essence
that makes everything grow.

But each gardener
has his own garden and dirt,
the poet’s, the painter’s,
the musician’s, the carpenter’s,
each artist courts you
in the way most endearing
to his abilities and heart,
and you are there,
a temptress in ever shifting forms,
enticing, luring, calling,
offering your body
as a sea to be crafted
(but can the sea be tamed?),
you are there
the flower of a love
that makes the journey worthwhile,
and the seed of the fruit
that makes your garden leap
from heart to heart,
that makes your sea flood
across the ages of mankind.

His Ink; Her Juice; Their Poetry

She laid there
surrounded by candles,
the inked verses
of past night’s lovemaking
sprawling like vines
all across her naked skin,
the bowl of grapes
placed on her belly
trembling each time
his pen pushed
into her, into the pink flower
between her thighs,
wanting her essence, he said,
her juices mixed
with each word he wrote
in his private journal,
and as the writing
became feverish
her mouth caught fire
and flared with moans
brighter than all
the surrounding candles,
brighter than the moon
peeking jealous
through curtains.
At the pen’s last stroke
the grapes
pressed between their bodies
burst like moans…

Lovers’ Meditation; A Prayer

We sit facing each other,
wordless, our eyes
resting in contemplation,
attentive, listening
with all the primitiveness
of our blood,
listening to our breath
in its ebb and flow
weaving tighter
the life inhabiting us,
sussing the warmth
out of each other
as deeper and deeper
we inhabit each other’s bodies,
the internality of each
flowering in a moment
of openness,
flowering behind our eyes
and spilling into our hearts
a prayer-like knowing
as slowly, slowly,
the light accumulating
in the ponds of our faces
at last shines and spills,
our faces, merging,
from amid the silent hills rise
white as the moon.

Free Verse # 385 (tucking her hair behind her ear)

This poem
a river loitering
in a strange land
waiting for one glance
from your eyes
to begin its journey
into the heart of the sea.

~

Poems…
paper boats
across infinity
sailing
between you and me.

~

cyfbe4ywgaasuyk
Photographer unknown

In the silence
of my soul
my poem
is a solitude sailing
on a journey
of no return
ever deeper
into you,
you
all the oceans
with one voice calling,
you the port
where my sail rests
in the house
of eternity.

~

Here I am,
it is cold again,
and in the white wind
my heart
is a red coal burning
with the fire
of your name.

~

Your breasts –
late autumn apples,
sun laden figs,
and my mouth
fed upon their milk
whispers in soft sighs
flower-poetry…

~

My poem
a fern branch
into your forest
of white silence
reaching…

~

On the silent ledge
above the sea
of dawn
I wait,
my hands
a poem of stars
ripening your name
into a dewy pour
on the eyelids
of the earth.

~

Night, rain, soul ache,
and the solitude of the world
sitting with you
as you read
to a burning candle
a book of poetry.

~

Breaths exchanged
over a book
and two cups
of jasmine green tea,
his fingers tucking her hair
behind her ear,
and their looks
in each other drifting,
birds flying through mist
over the endless sea.

~

A sudden heat
rose in her veins
as though a new blood
entered her;
somewhere in the distance
in the shade of flowers
his ink was burning
as it wrote her name.

~

The many books
still to read,
kisses to share
and poems to bleed,
before winter
the curtain draws,
and lays me to rest
in the white of sleep.

~

Mouth against mouth
let us drain
this poem-sun
to its last drop,
drunk and laughing
let us spin
this world sober
in the womb of our love.

Free Verse # 384 (my book of love)

batroun-november-2016
Batroun, November 2016

In my book of love
and so long as I can remember
I’ve been writing you
a poem each day,
and each day
I’ve been burning
this poem in your heart,
its smoke the incense
that fills my lungs,
the perfume that scents
the vineyard of my nights and days.

~

He drew her to his chest
like the arms of the forest
draw the falling leaves
in heaps over the breast of the earth
to eternal sleep and rest.

~

Dawn finds us,
two bodies shivering wet
interlocked inside the fist
of a single heartbeat,
the vapor of our skin
mist drifting in the wind,
filling the rivers and forests
with love’s ancient voice,
a soft moan unfurling its dew
on the cheeks of the green earth.

~

Like darkness in the wine
she resides in my soul,
the ferment of my longings,
my ache and hope.

~

Avec toi je marche
à l’infini des étoiles,
à la place d’où est tombé
le premier des poèmes.

~

Dirt under my fingernails,
dust on my clothes,
all day since dawn
in her vineyards I toil,
at night I fill my soul
with the wine of her mind.

~

My breath at dawn…
petals burned
in the fire of longing,
their ashes
in the rising sun
an aura of fragrance
whispering your name.

~

…and I with my ear
on night’s heaving chest
hear your name uttered
in wisps of dew and starlight…

~

The owl on your favorite teacup
hoots in the lonely night,
‘where are you? where are you?’
no one crossing over
to touch me with your light.

Free Verse # 383 (her poem stepped into my eyes)

I looked at her
and the wind breezed,
and my heart
like a shivering leaf
was carried
far beyond the silent hills.

~

The wind blows,
the thunder claps,
my hand
into the dark reaches
searching for your hand,
and my mouth for yours
aches
like a wound
for its healing balm.

~

One winter morning
you look out the window
and snow covers
everything;
just like that,
sometime in the night
your poem touched my cheek,
now, at morn, looking out the window,
your breath covers everything.

~

Her poem
stepped into my eyes
and closed the door,
ever since
I could only see
through her veil of light.

~

My breath
a river of mist and fog
circling her neck,
its dew falling thick
lacing her white hills,
her breasts, belly, and back
all soaked with the shiver
of poetry…

~

In the shadow
of the poem
let us surrender breath
and rise again in spring,
two rose-trees
from a single stem.

~

How do I write?
I feel your hand
on my chest,
over my heart,
and writing happens.

~

Howling winds outside,
on my table
a candle flickers
by a dreaming book,
her hovering breath
in the air drips –
the ambrosia of silence.

~

The sound
my poem makes
when touched by her breath…
in the silence of the night
a candle praying

~

At dawn
my breath is a butterfly
from flower to flower
fluttering
searching for her mouth

Free Verse # 382 (the clock is broken)

Distant and apart
we whispered
in the dark,
her breath in my ribs
a billowing sea,
mine in hers
a swelling moon,
and together
poetry…

~

In the heart of the poem
I am a house
full of yearning,
my windows
are burning candles
all waiting for you.

~

Our poems are birds
that flock in twos,
always flying
between me and you,
singing always
our voice combined,
wing to wing
over sea and sky,
and into horizons
of eternal light.

~

Poetry is the medium
and you are the bowl
holding this sky

~

Even you, undying stars, shall one day sleep,
The fog alone over our graves shall silently creep.

~

I tasted poetry
upon her breasts
that lulled me
with their heave
to a rest
deep and abiding
as I curled
my heart’s fire
in their nest.

~

The fire dwindles,
ache subsides,
our bodies as one
sleep all night.

~

Head on the pillow,
my breath
between your lips
surrenders,
a candle burning
in your lungs,
its light seeping
in your blood.

~

Turning and turning
the clock is broken,
it suffered one gaze
from your eyes.

The Touch of Your Grace

This touch
that is my beginning
and end
O tell me
of its curves and bends
and how it will twist
my spine to break
and how it will shake
my ribs apart
and how
trying to contain you
it will fail
so it will just sing you
to the sea and sky
and all that is holy
and all that is mundane
shall before
the glimpse of your face
suspire
and with a sigh puffed
before they fade
shall say the unsayable
with a word of light
and you will smile
and smiling you will set
the world in motion
the stars at rest
and everything and everything
will be in place
just by a touch
of your infinite grace.

We Exchanged Poems for Rings

We exchanged poems for rings
With words not penned by our fingers
But burned into each other’s souls
By our breaths as we kissed.

We sealed our fate with poems
Hushed between our merged lips
And the fervent ink became the blood
Spilling on the unfolding sheets of our lives.

With poems we spoke our silent vows
As our pressed lips spoke eternity
In a volume so great our chests tore
And our ribs danced and joined in bliss.

Thinking of You

I think of you
and somewhere in my soul
a poem lifts its wings
and fans the holy fire inside;
I think of you
and somewhere a key turns
unlocking the door
and making my heart rush
with the taste of freedom;
I think of you
and thought itself
breaks from within
and twirls around itself
like a broken compass
no longer knowing
which way is which;
I think of you
and the sound of laughter
flutters over the field,
with a hand of light
caresses the shafts of wheat
and the more distant hills,
and, further on, the great openness
of the ocean and sky;
I think of you
only to discover bit by bit
and over many years
that, in truth, it is you
who is thinking me,
growing me out of you
like vegetation grows
or like waters flow
from the womb of the earth;
I think of you
and all thought burns out,
yet thinking becomes beautiful
under the gaze of you.

The Placeless-ness of Love

We dreamed of a lonely house
Where love alone knows our name,
Away from the noise and crowd
We would knit our passion’s flame.

Lost amid the silent hills
Oh the altar we would make!
For the fire of poetry
To rise and the world to shake.

My love, this house is no place,
It is wherever we are,
Its ground revolves deep within
Like the light of the first star.

Therefore when you are lonely
Place your hand upon your chest
And within feel us shining
Our sun joining east and west.

A song to a lost lover, the lovers we often are.