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.

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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.

Letter, April 30, 2017

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.

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.

Letter, November 13, 2016

The earth looks on, a heavy longing in her eyes; tears hang full on the naked branches of the trees; and in the birdsongs the white roar of winter is already heard. Autumn is deep, pressed on by the cracking whips of the winter winds. And I, with my candle burning, with my book and my cup of silence, weave words in my fingers and pretend they are the dark curls of your hair. Your breath drifts on, the smoke of burning grass over empty fields. I gaze again into the infinite distances surrounding me and hear your voice calling from everywhere. Oh my love, what have you done to me? This ache for you is a wound that wants to heal; and yet, whenever its crust hardens, whenever its lips are about to mend, your fingers, white as winter snow, soft as moonlight, peel through its layers again and teach me the meaning of poetry. The candle is burning out; the incense stick is uttering its final breath; and the camp of the night has laid its siege. Give me patience, teach me how to wait, and let me burn with the oil of your longing. Let me be the moon on the curve of your lips.

Letter, October 16, 2016

What is my heart?—A garden where each flower whispers your name. O beloved, my heart is garden drunk with your name. And what the flowers whisper like a prayer charged with incense fills to overflow the sacred cup of dawn. My heart is no longer a reliable mirror to hold up against the world and behold its face, for it is now fashioned with the fires of your name. So my heart sees you everywhere, in each nook and corner, into the widest sky infuses your presence. Through the hidden door you have come into my life and have swept me out into a place without roof and walls. And now, as autumn sets in and as the leaves begin to fall, as the lesson of transience and ephemerality is given once more, your love carves a deeper truth in me, and gives me back to the world as a man born to live the ways of your love.

Letter, September 21, 2016

Every time I look at you my eyes glisten with the shyness of that first time I saw you; my eyes which can never get used to you and reduce you to a habit, a known object, something wholly understood and incorporated. So a mystery in you remains, the mystery, and the more my gaze sails towards your receding horizons the more I yearn to live in your unsolvable depths. Again and again I could see you for an infinite number of times, and each time something new would reveal itself in you, like a poem come to life. And, my love, what would this transcript be if not the poetry of my life.