Winter poem

At the turn of the winter sea-

son(g)s rise to hail the Creator

The forest rumble and sway

and somber waves thunder and swell, roll over-

taken by the rugged wind

as bone-chilling squalls hurl giant

swaths of snow upon a distant harrowed field

where a seed has dropped ― to die

and bear

the fruit (of Man) ―

a prayer's unravelling to silence

_ _ _

"You fool! What you saw does not come to life unless it dies."

― 1 Corinthians 15:36

ЗИМНА ПОЕМА

(на Майка)

Край вълнолома на зимния сезон

песни се реят във възхвала на Създателя

Разлюляната гора бучи

повдигат се с грохот мрачни вълни, и падат

сломени от грубия вятър

и мразовити вихрушки запращат (вели)-

кански снопове от сняг надaлеч в разораното поле,

където едно зърно е паднало ― да си отиде

и прероди се

в нов (човешки) плод ―

една молитва се разплита в тишината

_ _ _

“Безумецо, що ти сееш, няма да оживее, ако не умре.” 

― 1 Коринтяни 15:36

band of seagulls

"The deeper sorrow carves into your being,

the more joy you can contain."

— Khalil Gibran

december

yarrow stalks —

donning dainty snow hats

"water's edge"

For what it is

A kit of pigeons swirl

through the dense knotted limbs
of benumbed frost-bitten trees
black and bare to my blind eye

I see a dozen flapping wings 

 that thrust against the clasp of winter,

hear crisp-clear whips of sails at sea

midst fierce gusts of arctic wind —
emphatic flight for higher ground;
a silver cloud moored on the roof,
a reverie perhaps, immersed?
.

for what it is, is that, which isn't
and what is sought is seldom seen
or grasped in the moment,
but missed, and missed

(composite after J.M.W. Turner)

Boundary Bay

_ _ _

Under the fire rainbow. Fishing.

"How do you know when it's the right time?"

"Well, you just kind of . . . know." ― he replies.

Sunlight replete

Yin-yang

"The world is not comprehensible, but it is embraceable:

through embracing of one of his beings."

― Martin Buber

Rising wings

On the grace of wings

extant dreams [re]turn, raise me a-

bove the orderly

Tis the open Road

Tis the open Road ―

astounding the mere proposition

of distance and destiny merging

in the grace of light

Yellow blooms

beyond the yellow
 blooms of the broombrush — fierce wind

upon a fearless horizon

Wildalone

Wildalone*, I'm-

age harbouring a restless soul, uprooted

and haunted by this

intrinsic longing to be on the move

in chase of an archaic self-
reinventing ever illusionary horizon

somewhere else, obscure
like an emerald frosted century-
old heart-shaped sea-glass
relentlessly pounded by time and elements
glinting now at my weary feet
at the water's edge of Cabo Fisterra
believed once to be the End of the World
astounding, evermore unsettled
the mere proposition of a dream
distance destiny merging
someday, someplace

*Wildalone, самодива [samodiva]

_ _ _

“Now more than ever do I realize that I will never be content with a sedentary life, 

that I will always be haunted by thoughts of a sun-drenched elsewhere.” 

― Isabelle Eberhardt, The Nomad: The Diaries of Isabelle Eberhardt

The falls at Ezaro at the delta of Rio Xallas

The river plunging to the Atlantic in a waterfall.

At Earth's end

Towards the end (if not a vertical precipice)
Earth crumbles to sand, emerald sea-glass glitter
amidst white heart-shaped pebbles, seashells
a blue horizon strings, attempting to disappear
the Ocean breathes in violent gales of wind.
"It's not cold. It's windy," the Galicians joke.
And it is both! believe me. Glorious, breathtaking
as only the End of the World could be.
At Cabo Fisterra.

 _ _ _

"Power" (Adrienne Rich)

Living in the earth-deposits of our history

Today a backhoe divulged out of a crumbling flank of earth
one bottle amber perfect a hundred-year-old
cure for fever or melancholy a tonic
for living on this earth in the winters of this climate

Today I was reading about Marie Curie:
she must have known she suffered from radiation sickness
her body bombarded for years by the element
she had purified
It seems she denied to the end
the source of the cataracts on her eyes
the cracked and suppurating skin of her finger-ends
till she could no longer hold a test-tube or a pencil

She died a famous woman denying
her wounds
denying
her wounds came from the same source as her power

— Adrienne Rich

                                                                   At Fisterra, Galicia [The End of the World] : June 10th, 2015

The tempest

I watch the sun melt

mould in a drop of water —

the eye of a tempest

staring back at me

_ _ _

"I am trying now to exaggerate the essential,

and purposely leave the obvious things vague."

— Vincent van Gogh, from Letter to Theo van Gogh

Arles, 26 May 1888

Tender embrace

Tangled [in] words

I get tangled in words
run aimlessly between reason

and consequence.

There is a notion of getting [it]

                                in the word for-getting

and giving [all there is]

                                in the word for-giving.

I figured that the other night

drifting at the water’s edge, waves

washing my weary senses.

There is a point where a thought

 needs to be verbalized. Then I speak

in the words of others, or perhaps

it's the other way around?

However weightless, I am not a bird
nor wind rustling the leaves.
I dare not
                                disturb the silence.

Impartance

I do not know how to love.

Neither do you.

It is precisely why love

is here. To teach us.