Archive for the ‘prosety’ Category

To be so in love

To be so in love that you forget to eat,
that you can only think of your loved one’s eyes,
that cold rain feels pleasant to you,
that you don’t need sleep yet always dream,
that you write poems in spite of dyslexia
and watching the full moon makes you smile,
okay we all can do that, but

to be so in love that trees start to shiver
when you pass them by, that birds
on their way South fly back to greet you,
that it is raining flowers wherever you walk,
that mountains roll over to let you go through
and the moon has decided to shine full and round
even it is that time of month when it is new,
now that is to be so in love.

Doltish

Stupid people hate dictionaries.
It annoys them that a book
knows more than they do
and all books know more than they do,
so they gossip hatefully and aim to hurt
people reading dictionaries.

People reading dictionaries though
don’t care about stupid people.
They just look for another word
for stupid.

😉 Don’t ask!

Olga’s Winter Journey

It was winter and snow at the station.

A moment it was, just a moment we shared,
nothing compared with eternity really,
fate decided we should share this train, together.
Or was it nothing like that, just two passengers
boarding? It could have been anyone. I took out my book.

I read Solzhenitsyn, well I gave it a try,
as the white window views passed by us.
You watched me, and took the book
and you hold my hand for a moment to show
a phrase on a page in the Russian translation.

The words went above me, beyond language
as I listened how you read them out loud.
Heavy, reverberating, deep, your voice told me
of lonesome landscapes, depression, war,
or whatever it meant, in rhyming verses,
while the train approvingly, comforting, commented
with every vowelless Russian syllable.

I didn’t ask for your name, but you gave it away,
as you and the writer shared it, you claimed.
I pronounced it, and you smiled.
“You should be called Olga,” you said,
a name I didn’t particularly like.
I laughed instead of asking why.

We shared your bread and half a bottle of wine,
and when you had reached your destination,
we just looked at each other.
You wanted to say something
but didn’t. Still being strangers
we parted without a goodbye.

When the train left the station,
you still stood there though;
a black monument of loneliness
lost in the pain of the snow,
raising your hand, and we waved.

Nothing changed, but everything was different
in the way I would think about the name Olga in future.

Train Thinkings

The train is starting to leave the platform. I look outside, the landscape tells me it is colder now.
Across me sits a woman in no mood to talk, a man is reading in a paper. On the front page a picture of a woman with a veil.
Even she is shutting me out.
And so I wonder off in thought.

What does this all mean? Have I shut out myself as well?

To let in myself
from outside me
what will I find
in the corners
of my mind
once I have dropped
my veils for myself?

With my luck, probably a king size mirror.
The thought makes me smile out loud.

The man puts down the paper, the woman starts to talk.
I now see that they are together.
“It is getting colder,” I say, as their eyes have made me their accomplice. And within a minute, we are discussing
climate and the sixties, when Winters were real. But last year was severe as well. Yes it was.

The paper, now redundant, lies open, a picture showing a smiling face.
A winking eye.
They reach their destination.
The paper and I have a long way still to go.

The train shows how we changed the world since then
but do you care much, hidden in your book?
You travel best without having to look
at landscapes being filled with filth of men.
I notice that you lick your lips at times
and watch you smile because of prose you read.

Then there’s a second, where our eyes do meet.
You speak. “I don’t like poetry that rhymes,”
you say. “Do you?” and I search in my mind
to find an answer that is true yet kind
as you have eyes that make me love this train.
“I do at times,” I say, then you read on.
The splendor of the moment now is gone,
the world has changed some more and we have rain.

The train is going slower
due to another train in front of us.
At 3 pm, it is already getting darker.
In the window I see myself, but older now.
So much to think about
of how lucky, glad I feel
and why it is that I am happy;
a word no poet ever seems to use.
Counting my blessings,
not leaving you out by the way,
I watch the grey turn into black.
Still so glad I live, a feeling
too mundane for poetry?

I’ve known times that were not really mine,
when I couldn’t live my own life.
All it took to change, was stepping out
of stupid situations, getting no where.

The train is speeding up
and my thoughts are slowing down
into the deeper meaning
of acceptance.

*

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This is an experiment: I have combined 2 poems and a “prosety” piece into one. The prosety part is new, the poems were published here earlier : “Strangers on the train”, Jan. 22, and “Accepting some delay” Dec. 2. Please let me know what you think! 🙂

On the edge

Those thoughts of what is true, what did you really think, how can we know that of another?
We stood beside each other, and we watched the waves withdraw.
They left me in confusion, were we in love or no more so, could I reach for your hand
and would you take mine in yours too? So much I longed to feel your warmth, to smell the leather of your coat. Instead I started walking on. After more time than I could bear, I knew you followed me when I heard your breathing.
For a mile I didn’t dare to look at you, we had not said a word, this silence had come so between us, louder than the sea. We stared over the beach. A frozen moment; it was ebb. From now on, everything could happen.
And then I felt that arm around my shoulder. All was cleared without ever been spoken out.
A seagull screamed surprised over our heads, and in your smiling eyes was love. Those thoughts of what is true, we need not know it of each other. The sea came back as we went on with life, and walked away. Together.

image by my husband Toussaint

Split second of Mazarine Blue

Mazarine blue is your colour, like the name of the butterfly.  I said so when we were still holding hands. When we met again, it was by surprise, in the rain, in a busy street. I saw you first, I think,  not sure it was you,  we hadn’t stayed friends, so I kept walking in the opposite direction of you, wearing my mask of anonymity.  The rain caused the smell of dogs and ginger, memories of our last days together, did you smell it too, in the coats of passing by people preventing  us from stopping,  you did slow down a bit. Your pace is heavier now, older and more determined, but you still wear that Mazarine blue coat with that stain under the collar. And she was walking beside you in red.
Hit by your closeness, I almost ran after you, not bare footed like in my fantasy of our reunion for years, but in green rubber boots, and my hair sticking on my face. I wanted to scream: “I still have your shell, thank you, come back!” -the shell I always keep in my pocket for good luck, cherishing it and carefully keeping it from breaking but I didn’t, as you already walked on. Did your eyes scare, laugh, surprise themselves too? I turned my head away from you, hiding my tears in the rain, not too soon to feel you looked back. My coat wasn’t warm enough anymore, I ran home.  The light was blinking on the phone, but I didn’t answer, deleted the  message. To hear your voice now (it was you) would have been unfair. Unbearable.  My wet hand  accidentally crushed our precious fragile shell and blood started to warm my fingers. You still look so well. Mazarine blue is your colour.

      image from earthlife
entry for thursday poets rally week 55

Thank you Thursday poets rally week . I nominate Harry Nicholson for the next award!

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