Self-Portrait

I

In his eyes
you can see it,
a wound reaching
deep down
into an abysmal place
that opens
to an infinite sky.

II

I was invisible
until she saw me,
the woman I erected
with words and shadows,
the woman whose eyes
are a luminescent ink,
woman, my double,
with a sly smile caressing my ache
only to ignite my longing for her –
her – an imaginary being
blessed by a suffering she sweetly calls –
poetry.

Wandering Thought # 90

A little poetic sensibility is enough for you to know that you do not inhabit the same world as that of men. They pass you by as if they were holograms projected from another dimension, barely aware of their immediate surroundings and the intricacy that holds everything together, sways and moves everything to the same rhythm; they pass you by as if they were humans that never completely materialized, remaining half-ghosts, not really aware of the currents and tides of their own bodies, and how these merge with and echo the infinite beauty and chaos of the world outside. A little poetic sensibility goes a long way. You open your eyes, and realize you’ve been blind. You hear, feel, smell and touch as if for the first time. The world is alive. The world, as it is, is spirit, is art, it is poetry.

To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.

William Blake

Haiku # 648

His words in her ears…
Seashells divulging
the secret of the sea
~
A la table du poète
devant l’encrier
songe le vieux papier
~
Ses cheveux noirs
maison aux eaux coulants
au fond de la terre
~
Matin brisé
par la brume…
Le souffle de la mer
~
A l’abri du silence
la chandelle fane
lentement la nuit
~
Peignant la nuit
le noir
de ses cheveux.
~
Notre amour
dans dix milles ans…
Etoile sur la mer
~
Eight to five job…
the bird at my window
teasing with his smile
~
Haiku pond
the shadow of a bird
passing at dusk
~
Fallen in love…
The changed color
of her eyes

Wandering Thought # 87

A poet is one who feels and intuits the infinite in the finite, and this from the deepest elevations of his spirit and soul.

***

Poets and people in whom the spirit is rich and abundant face the danger of feeling excluded and guilty on account of that which makes them rich and unique — because it also excludes them from the company of people and society, and makes the space around them so great that very few could hope or want to traverse it. Learning the usual social skills is doubly more difficult for such people, because, at first sight, it feels for them as though it is a betrayal of the spirit in them, of their uniqueness and idiosyncrasy. But that is necessary if they hope one day to become more than just poets and spiritually rich people — human beings who are full of light and mastery, conquerors of the inner realms and of their lives, a light unto humanity, and also, simply, genuinely and deeply happy people, people whose ability for joy and fulfillment is so much greater than their normal kin could ever fathom or understand.