Inspired by Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941)
Those who plant the trees
To grow inquisitive roots
Will never know shade
Excuse my misleading tags: WordPress is now having an invisible man hissy fit. I cannot see or delete what I am typing for them… hence my absence, among other things.
I speak rightly –
set not my words to music,
nor douse them in tune to vast breaths
I am among you as mortal,
still. But, please, breathe freely –
at least for a time,
then let me be to eager rests’
devoted arms –
of course your strewn petals,
benign at my feet,
speak calmly of foe and friend –
draw me close to your wondrous
adoration; so separate me not from music’s glow
when such fragments tear you
into fractious, scattered pieces –
and so it is perhaps that great art’s worship
be confined to symbolic gesture.
I am not lost, and I am not gone
whilst echoes play
with such innocence
and voices call me. I am translucent.
Gleaned from me is the skin you were denied.
I am always yours. I am diaphanous.
I am the keeper of lost things,
those intangible imprints of wasted life,
destined to become the destroyer of goodness
and maker of sadness.
I am the collector of vast hauls and hoards,
since time is thievery and accomplice to cruel
love; both take from me, in swift exchange,
my things for harsh space, only to become
entangled in remnants of incomplete thought,
and ‘til sunken eyes and gestures sweep a vile ground –
where lies all a memory cannot contain.
Don’t blunt me with spells and vain speech,
or artistry, somewhat incomplete – you’re of foul tongue.
So consider that, all of these splattered blanks
make this canvass bare –
wouldn’t thou pain if my picture lay there?
‘Though lost in howling gales
that tether me to their tempest charm,
I can still nurture and carry you with me.
I left you only briefly to catch my breath,
that too is taken from me.’
Darkness clothes a fragile bosom that once held
in its clasp lovers and babes
who now suckle the misted air
around her still feet.
Cold and alone they glide as one, lost to her
until time can soften such stone.
Grief seeps the cleavage as its hunger devours a
faint grip – a moist hand touches her robe
and begs tears to heal the deep sorrow
that plagues her still.
Rivulets run away from her, but never very
far or for very long.
stepping stone dreams are played;
currents of virtuosity