The World Is Beautiful


The world is beautiful with its splendor of all shades of green and the chirping of black-robed  birds 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 of this beautiful world.

Copyright the author writing as Serge Gurkski

Translation to English by Serge Gurkski

Die Welt ist schön…FÜR HOLLY RENE HUNTER)

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

beside the River

Remember the cabin among the trees hidden like rabbits resting in nests of autumn leaves?  By the window that looks out on the river there is a writer’s desk  with printing ink and fresh flowers on the sill,  froths of tenderness kissed by the sun.
Can you recall the  warm days we shared  among redwoods that spoke to us?  The memory evokes such nostalgia for that ache, fierce with crushing devotion. I left a heart shaped basket of seeds in the arch of a tree for the birds to scatter.  I will always  remember you and the cabin by the river,  the sultry nights I would dance for you,    sheer layers floating  to the herringbone floor.

GoGreen Roulotte | Canopy & Stars

Stasis

I shower and dress, apply makeup as though I am going to work.  I barely recognize  my own  reflection   in the mirror but  I am wearing my favorite dress and my hair is the color of rusty nails.  I ignore your perplexed expression and questions.

Downtown I meld into the chaotic masses,  eyes that are infused with the pain of   survival. As the morning wears on relentless chatter becomes an undercurrent of whispers that fade with the crowd. Sweat  and strong coffee stings  my nostrils, clings to skin.  Alien faces  are etched behind my eyes.

The familiar  girl  is  propped against the graffiti covered wall that turns golden in the sunset. Her head rests against   skeletal arms that  wrap around her knees.  Jarred by a boot she glances upward from her induced euphoria,  fumbles in the pocket of torn jeans  fishing out a handful of dollars.  Glancing around the man slips it beneath his belt and places a small bag into her weedy fingers that loosen, dropping it between her feet. I wonder how she will sleep in the night cold.

Repelled by the  scent of urine, even the pigeons keep their distance and the stray dog lifts his feet. I feel those good intentions rising but they remain contained in my hermit mind. Does it count that I thought of her as she isolates to death?

Making my way back I pass  that abandoned  garden, pick a flower to playfully  slip behind your ear. I rely on distractions these days.

You kiss the back of my neck and once again describe your  beloved island and how the sun’s glare bounces off the seas surface and  life glides beneath the sparkling blue that spreads over the horizon.

From my deserted garden we share an apple that reminds me of an autumn orchard and a love struck boy whose memory compels me to rub my body against you in search of that trigger,  that wild place in my mind that is precious only if it is gone.

Cherry Blossoms – Holly Rene Hunter

Thank you Kristiana and Free Verse Revolution

FREE VERSE REVOLUTION

A mass of  tangled limbs we cling to each other. I hold tight to baby sister as we toss about the dank floor of the vessel, its boards pelted by the spray of high swells. Her   sweet scent distinguishes her from the others, she has the smell of  blossoms freshly picked. Just yesterday we were lingering along the dirt road that leads from the old school house to our home of splintered walls and concrete floors ignoring by instinct the slant eyes of  men driving an old van closer and closer. Our school books scattered on the path, muffled cries drowned under rumbling motors. Miles from home we are fed La Rochas to  soothe us into sweet fevered dreams. Waking  in a perfumed world of flowered sarongs and  silk fans, we can sense the slits of men’s eyes behind angry walls.


 

Copyright H. Rene Hunter

https://houseofheartweb.wordpress.com/

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Last Refrain

The earth glistens with rosettes of snow

the sun still rises in myriad hues

Nightingales seek refuge in barren trees

to mourn February’s last refrain.

Contrails light the wings of birds

that flit beneath lit sills of doors

settle softly into winters chill

shelter in a pale blue bed

Translation by Bernd @ Neues Vom Hutschi

Der letzte Kehrreim
Die Erde ist Pulverschnee.
Die Sonne geht auf in unzähligen Farben.
Nachtigall suchen Zuflucht in meinem Schrank,
beklagen den letzten Kehrreim des Dezembers.
Weiße Streifen blitzen hinter den Flügeln der Häher,
die durch die beleuchtete Türöffnung flitzen,
sich sanft in die Januar-Kälte setzen,
Geborgenheit finden in einem hellen Winterbett.

Night LIfe

From my  window  a sliver of  moon casts a haze over the water. I can hear the  rush of soft waves. Those  creatures beneath the depths,  do they sleep,  dream?  If  parted do they grieve?  Down the street  I can see  the lights from  an all night store. A man waits behind the counter.  Cautiously he  slips his hand under his jacket and takes a long swig from a  bottle.   A group of young thugs gather outside the storefront.   I imagine them  harming the storekeeper.  Distracted by the young whore taking shelter in a doorway they laugh and whisper. Oblivious to her vulnerability she sleeps as though she has never heard of  birds of prey that swoop down with jagged talons hungry for butchery.   I watch intently  in case I need to call out a warning  but losing interest they disappear into the dark.
Maybe nothing is real. Maybe   everything I see and hear is an illusion.   I lose focus on the  outside world and the burn of you stings relentlessly just below the surface.   I want to sleep forever, not give a damn about you.

 

Absinthe

Molten wax streams down the copper sconce onto the night stand as  you light my cigarette and  proceed to pour  your   unholy green trinity of wormwood, fennel, and anise into a fine crystal goblet.   Holding the spoon gently to my lips I impudently turn away.  I do not touch your concoction until you feign fascination with the mundane anecdote I consider trivial enough to share.   Several sips later we lean back casually into your brocade cushions and in a somewhat dreamier state you attempt to distract me  with  details of your recent dalliance with a french contemporary artist until I  dismiss it with an apathetic yawn.  The embodiment of elegance you  smile and arch your brow, once again  hold the spoon gently to my lips and in your impossibly delectable rhythm whisper that my hair and fair skin so near stirs your mind into  arousal and my supple lips are a  crimson darkness that consumes you.  Sinking  deep into your far off voice   my subconscious begins to  vibrate for you.   Seduced by the lure of  Ravel’s waltz   I feel so soft inside and after a few more  sips I  hallucinate a frightened hare pursued by  relentless hunters pounding the snowy banks  that  rise above our grotto at the foot of the alps where we sink into hedonism.   To spare me the moonless massacre spilling down the mountainside you press me close to your chest and cover my eyes   with  tender kisses.    Having been saved from what now evades us we succumb  to a deep and somber slumber.

 

Green Smoke                      art by L’ Rend  Fou

 

Redhead (to Denver) by Brice Maiurro

Excerpt from “Redhead (to Denver) by Brice Maiurro

my dear
you are between a rock and a hard place
your face does not illuminate the same as the others
your lights are few and speckled
but i’ve always loved freckles
you are a grid system at first glance
i know they tell you real women have curves
but real women know better than that
sometimes you are cold and the conversation runs dry
but it’s not easy being as high as you are all the time
i love you
i never want to leave you
and i know you don’t believe me
but you are the manic pixie dream girl
who at times is slightly annoying
but i know your heart is too full of
homeless men laying out sleeping bags
on the floor of your rib cage
great tent cities on your shoulders

cherubim

She wishes  to  fade away,  to be less than nothing, unborn. A leaf on a tree in late October,  falling to the shadowy earth, devoured by the mud of the murmuring forest floor.

At dinner she sits across from the  smiling man.  Later  they retreat to a larger room  that is  flooded by honey-colored light where he reads from the book, moving from life to death, from lead to gold.  Light ning strikes  the corner of his blinking eye,  the twitch of his crooked smile.  He warns her of  saintly heroes, how she must fight against all temptation, live in his light to hear the angelic chime of bells that summon her  to  kneel and  remain beside his  benevolent being.

At dusk he takes her hand and leads her through a  wooded path to an arbor where she must undress  for she is not pure  and  he  is good and wise and knows all holy things.  An invisible cherubim  takes her  hand  and leads her back  through the same  woods  to the house,  high on the  hill,  it’s madness and despair sleeping.  The squirrels, birds,  and  white tail deer know fear and hide away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Negril

In the hushed silence between waves
sighs fill the night as stars come alive
and the breeze is a soft poem.
Nude in the moon light but for drifting
shadows the swirl in your glass keeps
perfect time with far off thunder.
I need to look away from your gun powder eyes
that lethal shot
before the fluttering of a thousand butterflies
betray me.
I breathe in the circlets of your cigarette and
the honey sweet scent of willing hostages.
As fragile as fireflies we escape to the madness of
our minds where all we have to do is live.

rainbow beach

Liliana Gigovic
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