The World is Beautiful

The world is beautiful with its splendor of all shades of green and the chirping of black-robed  blackbirds groping about and  sun and moderately cool air. The inconspicuous pedestrians, meek traffickers of tobacco and booze. After we make love she must get pretty again while I prepare dinner. We have it with candles and strings that sing us into a warm and mild night. Other times we go to the theater, opera, concert, café, end up in bars and into her dreams I tell her the night. What I have to offer to her is stolen from books she could read herself if so inclined. How, I think, can anyone stand the boredom of life undrunk?  She bites my ear, but for how long can she play this game? Along my voice reading her novels she glides over posh and fine accents into dreamlands I hum to her. And when she awakes again and again she expects from her lover to tell her the world is a beautiful place.

That’s easy for me, as easy as clouds rain down and bees fill their honeycombs and inside warm smiles I nakedly linger into our days. We feed us new life and do not fear death but rather what will make us die. We hurt one another but  we do not abandon us. Together we stay until cosmic symmetries break and make the world whole. As if we as lovers never existed. Your scent on my linen sails away into and out to this beautiful world.

 

Copyright the author writing as Serge Gurkski

 

Die Welt ist schön

Die Welt ist schön, sei schön mit ihrem vielerlei Grün, umhertastendem Getschilp der schwarzkuttigen Amseln, ihrer Sonne, ihrem mäßig kühlem Wind, unauffälligen Fußgängern, devoten Schnaps- und Tabakverkäufern. Schön auch wegen der vollen Brüste meiner Geliebten und ihrer Geilheit. Danach muss sie erst wieder schön werden. Ich koche, wir essen, Kerze, Violinen, laue Nacht. Oder: Theater, Oper, Konzert, Café, Kneipe. Ich erkläre, sie träumt, laue Nacht. Es steht, was ich ihr sage, in Büchern. Sie kann lesen, kann Bücher lesen. Könnte. Wie kann man, frag‘ ich mich, ohne Schnaps in dieser schönen Welt ohne Langeweile existieren? Sie beißt mich ins Ohr. Aber wie lange kann sie das durchhalten? In die Nacht gleitet sie an meiner Stimme, die leise aber akzentuiert Schönes, eben: belles lettres, in sie summt, damit sie auf Schallschwingen in ihren Traum schwebt. Und immer erwacht sie und hofft sie, mein schöner Spiegel, dass ich ihr die schöne Welt noch einmal mehr zeige.
Das kann ich wie Wolken regnen und so leicht, wie Bienen Honig in Waben füllen. In ihrer lächelnden Wärme liege ich nackt in den Tag. Wir füttern uns Leben. Zu Scharfes wird nicht serviert. Nicht den Tod, aber was dazu führt ersparen wir uns. Wir muten uns ständig Schmerz zu aber nicht den großen, den Abschied, bis plötzlich ex nihilo Symmetriebrüche die Welt wieder werden ließen. Als wären wir nicht gewesen. Es hing noch ein Geruch von dir und mir im unvertäuten Laken. Das schwob davon. Die Welt ist schön.

copyright the author writing as Serge Gurkski

Muscadine

His mother named him Carlos. Such a strange name for a Welshman. Perhaps she loved Spain. 

Summers heavy cloak hung over fields of Goldenrod their long limbs reaching out to mesh with spiky leaves that sheltered bundles of marmalade florets. The invasion of the meadow met with merciless machetes that hacked through  the unwelcome invaders who hadn’t the courtesy to extend a pleasant fragrance.

A trail led to an arbor by a trickling brook. Nestled  in a stand of trees a precarious trellis  bowed heavy  with  never ending appendages that wound and wove through dense clusters of bulbous translucent nipples clinging tenaciously to their host.

The scent of peppery earth stung the nostrils and attracted white tail deer that ravaged the vines of their treasure. The old man snaked a garden hose through the lattice to frighten them, a guise that worked only to  astonish lovers lingering in sacred rendezvous.

Soon the clammy dragons of summer breathed their fiery breath and the skin of the luminous fruit burst with the sweetest nectar. Declared ripe and ready to harvest and process by secret recipe known only to the old man and his son, ruptured with a pestle and filtered, the grapes were transformed and stored in Bell jars, sweet and crisp, underdeveloped but heady and pleasant.

Rarely did my father materialize from his travels once I had been delivered for the summer yet somehow the harvesting  of the grapes invoked his presence like a lark at dawn.

 

Offering

If I could return to your sanctuary I would bring one last offering.  Those words you loved,  that you spoke a thousand times  or wrote just once.  I would place them near, lay those tender verses down beside you.

Wildwood

 

A trampled path winds
its way through the
reaching arms of evergreen
to a misty wild wood where my
heart lies down with yours.
White tail deer nibble goldenrod
and lift the veil of solitude.
Spring showers and wild flowers
flourish there  where
April lives forever.

 

art © Joan Egert

 

In Memory