I am who I have always been
a shiver of soft reeds beside the river
or the cascade of waterfall.
Gypsy crows rise to a soft dawn sky
gathering their kind they circle
back for me.
I can scarcely bear the
splendor of the world,
it’s wonder humbles
the wisp of me.
Minutiae of eyes and ears
and speechless tongue
Stunned by the promise
of a red sunrise.
Elegant trees lift up
their mighty arms,
grand gods in prayer,
host to creatures
large and small,
a cornucopia of life
fills their noble crowns.
I want to sail across the sea,
this tiny fleck that is me,
a winged bird bearer of
fragment of the universe.
fine art America
Translation by Bernd Hutschenreuther
Ein geflügelter Vogel sein
Ich vermag kaum, den Glanz
der Welt zu enthüllen,
ihre Wunder schmälern
noch meine Winzigkeit.
Details von Augen und Ohren
und Zunge, stumm,
erstaunt vom Versprechen
Vornehme Bäume erheben
ihre erhabenen Arme,
mächtige Götter im Gebet,
Gastgeber unzähliger Geschöpfe,
abgezupft in rot und grün,
Füllhörner mit Nüssen und Beeren
zieren ihre edlen Kronen.
Ich möchte das Meer durchsegeln,
winziger Fleck, der ich bin,
ein geflügelter Vogel, Träger
keines Besitzes, ein erfreuliches
Fragment des Alls,
einem jeden sichtbar.
Deutsch: Bernd Hutschenreuther
Firelight dances through the bistro,
We lean in close and when our eyes meet
the rain storm streaming down the
stain glass window reclaims us.
Swept away through sea caves,
caverns and seal black maelstroms
we ride the darkness,
diving deep we take what we need.
Thieves, we steal only from ourselves.
Some nights I must draw a line,
a demarcation where dreams
and subconscious bend perception
to shape reality.
In my savage dreams I peel back my skin
press bristles of feathers through my bones
take to the sky on a fury of wings
In search of your harem among the clouds .
art by Karol Bak
He doesn’t know why she hurts, what she is thinking, he is not adept at examining those fine points best left in the pit of her belly. Her thoughts are dangerous bells, once rung they can’t be silenced. For him the final line is the closing, for her it is profound sadness.
The heart can fall like a suicide
spiral down like the shade of
cold as petals on an icy lake
a flowing grave of dreams
an echo chamber of pain
Let my tongue flirt like
a butterfly among
rather than polish my scars
debride my wounds.
As the fog of dream falls
I feel you.
The touch of your skin
calls to the savage in me,
ignites a raging flame.
Here we are still lovers
where I devour you
with the weak bites of
a starving animal,
never completely consuming
image from Art Express…Steve Hanks Art.
Satellites of eyes orbit my dreams, cellophane specters inhabit this space of detachment. Here tongues are no longer foreign and truth is the language I hold to my lips. Without fear my mind dances gently into the night that folds softly into hours
art by Lu Jianjun
From the fog I can hear the sighs
of lovers lost in the monsoon.
Images flicker in my frontal lobe,
that man with the golden veins,
he doesn’t interest me now as
sip by sip I liberate my mind.
Later when I am cocooned in the dark
I will bring him back again.
Birds soar high above the ice chiseled cliffs, roil over ancient forests at the moss covered foothills of Mountains. I hear the voices of ancestors, perverse whispers of hate and grudges, they are witness to our deception. They know the gaps in our souls are filled with the same darkness as theirs. When we once again come face to face they will tell us how the hours passed so quickly. You are that bird whose wings beat the air senseless, rainstorm eyes protest a dream unlived. That perfect blue honey of desire you washed away in golden brown. Swoop down, I miss the sound of you. Tell me how to survive beginnings. Save me from this carousel, my arms outstretched not knowing I am still spinning.
Between sleep and wake we
fall like stones into a silent lake
traversing birth and mortality.
Water pearls drop from unfastened palms
tiny moons slipping through fingers.
Deeper I find you in the iris of cat eyes,
not your spirit or rose tinged snow but
flesh and bone and sinew whose sigh is
an ancient strophe where we do not die
but flourish with the sprouting seeds.