I want to touch her

I want to touch her
with the reverence of a candle
for the stillness of the night,
with the awe of a saint
uttering the name of God,
with the longing of a birdsong
for the first light of dawn.

I want to touch her
with the ache for the rain
after a long season of drought,
with the sigh of a breaking bud
anticipating the air and light,
with the joy of burning incense
as it rises to the sky.

I want to touch her
as an oak seed taking root
on the mountain high,
as a stream of thawing snow
from cliff to cliff runs,
with the red lips of a poem
writing the history of mankind.

I want to touch her
like eternity blossoms
in the present moment,
like the breath of the seasons turns
with the endless wheel of time,
I want to touch her
and for this touch to be
my breath and life.

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Letter, February 17, 2018

One moment with you, however fleeting, is preferable to an achievement that would immortalize my name. The dust of your love is a better reward than the world and its riches, which men so adore. Lover, my longing for you is the only constant in an ever changing world, and if I have to call you by one word it would be this: Openness. You are the openness of my heart, and a world flung open in the arms of God.

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)

Longing
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.

Free Verse # 420 (something men have long forgotten)

Fervently, silently
I am writing for you,
Words etched
On tree barks
In hidden forests,
Words inked
With burning letters
On the skin of silence,
I am writing to you
As the wind breezes,
As the flowers bloom,
As the trees intuitively
Reach to the sky,
I am writing to you…

~

The night is silent
but I am calling you
with a thousand tongues hidden
in the flame of love

~

Every year the snow falls
and every year as it melts
it flows down the same streams,
and back to the boundless sea;
whenever I write I feel the words
streaming through her skin,
in their flow an ache
to melt deep within.

~

The world within this world,
the source, the primal spring,
the silence rooted in the openness
of the poem’s heart –
I touch your fingertips
and I am there,
I just look into your eyes,
the idea of you
flashes inside of me
and I am there,
a breathless flame
burning in your heart.

~

The poem I’d live with her one day…
all these years together
and every day I’m still learning
the shades of her smile

~

Dawn is on the rise…
again I feel you in my skin
a flooding beam of light

~

Poetry
was whispering something
men have long forgotten –
how to touch her soul,
how to listen to her heart.

~

Writing to you
always feels like meeting you
in that place
where our love first flowered
in the mysterious flesh of spring.

Writing to you
is always a beginning
of something that never ages
but is eternally youthful
in the heart of God.

Free Verse # 419 (la rue de ce poème)

Nuit d’hiver,
la rivière dans la vallée
gronde avec
la gueule blanche de la neige,
et moi, dans ma chambre,
assis auprès de la fenêtre,
écoute le souffle de la chandelle
mêlé au silence.

~

In the hush of dawn
I hear your voice,
the light of a distant star
dewing in my soul.

~

Dans mon cœur
je suis toujours
à l’écoute de ta voix

~

Dans la vie il n’y a qu’un poème à écrire, le reste est de la grammaire.

~

Pour rendez-vous je te donne
la rue de ce poème
où tous mes mots
courent comme un fleuve
qui désir se noyer
dans la fleur de ta peau

~

When I write
It is always like this,
I imagine your lips
Drinking the words
Sip by sip,
But my heart
Is the goblet
And my spirit the wine,
And the breath
You take from me
As you sip
You return,
Mouth on mouth
Relishing the poem
Of eternal love.

~

If this love
I did not give to you
In poems I would go mad,
But poems
Can be anything really,
A touch of a fingertip,
A shared breath,
A hike in the forest
As the sun sets,
For a poem, really,
Is synchronicity,
And two hearts open
To the source of love.

~

You visit me
When I’m about to leave
So I change my mind and stay,
But then, as I’m going, you call
And I stop to listen
To what you have to say,
So it seems that my life is nothing
But knots circling your being
In ever larger circles of mystery,
And a listening to the stillness
Of your soul.

Du poème je suis…

Du poème
je suis ce qui lutte
à te toucher,
cette lumière
qui approfondit sa pureté
dans son désir
à fleurir dans ta peau ;
du poème
je suis ce silence
qui écoute
ton cœur battre
dans la chair du monde,
je suis cette voix
qui s’est perdue dans le vent
il y a des siècles
et qui cherche à jamais
à se dissoudre
dans l’intime de ton souffle.

Du poème
je suis cette attente
qui déchire mon cœur
et le remplit du silence
de ta voix.