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

Cave People

In my nest of stones I have not slept. Upstairs the neighbors fight over how best to spend their time as it silently slips through the space between fingers.   As the last grains fall it seems reasonable to be present for those hours remaining.  The windows are dark in the townhouse across the way   but for a lamp shrouded in a rose colored scarf.  Stirred by the sound of an ocean breeze I imagine I am a pale warrior charged with the safety of sleeping birds as a cat passes by  casually eyeing them from a wire fence.  At last when  dawn  climbs above the ocean I can see deep amber on the shore,  the color of my lover’s eyes when aroused.  Those subtle  hues of gold  that glint and sparkle in my half empty glass.  I spend my  night rearranging decaying books,  drifting down smoke filled halls,  pillaging my mind.

 

 

Sand Castles

A knife blade of coast

line  separates us,

the stagnating scent of mangrove

fills my nostrils and the sediment

of time seeps ashore to sink

slowly into porous sand.

 

 

If I could I would take you high

into velvet skies where stars

form a swaying Ferris wheel.

 

Be a comet in my palm until

the night surrenders to the sun.

At low tide I build our castle

in my cove of madness where

again and again I watch their walls

wash out to sea,

this home I have constructed

where no one lives.

 

photo by Heart   DSCN0856

Common Ground

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

midnight deserts

  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

wildflowers

rather than polish my scars

debride my wounds.

 

 

 

 

of gods and monsters

The clouds above  are soft and the red earth sighs with  the far off chant of  natives,  pure and natural.  Now we are a hard place of  frozen sidewalks and rails of  trains that rush on like flocks of panicked geese. Their cold  box cars  carry the forgotten  to Portland and unknown destinations where men in fine suits, their eyes lit with cruelty,  sit behind vintage desks.  We  have forgotten  the sweet breeze of a summer downpour,  the call of a  whippoorwill,  everything beautiful that begs us to look up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Animal

Most of us have experienced it.

Unrelenting obsession that defies reason.

Denying its existence we shut down

its pathway, deprive it of oxygen,

shiver in the dark only to discover

it thrives on the night beneath

translucent veils that ignite

and inflame the  fire of desire.

 

 

  Pinterest

woman

Put to rest Adam’s story,  a myth written  by  forty men of diverse background over the course of fifteen hundred years and followed by the clergy for centuries.  We bow our heads to  patriarchal rule,  a not so thinly disguised tide of misogyny beginning with Adam’s lassitude.  Many of us  have forgotten who we are,  accept that if we are brutalized it is our fault.  Brutality is about power not lust.
As long as time
she has endured
thundering boots on
feathered feet that soft
as moonlight dance beneath
the dominion of praise or condemnation.
Her words, intrepid sprouts
taut as the curve of a bow held back
reveal her power,
he sees it in her eyes.
 
celtic woman
Celtic Woman on Tumblr

 

The Children’s Table

On  special occasions  I like to sit at the children’s table. No one cares if I play with my food, push it about my plate, deliberately let the peas slide over the edge.   The big table is  life, the grown-ups too  loud,  consuming  too much, exchanging secrets they regret having shared.  Rough hands grab a breast or thigh,   wine slipping down their chin, whores for the most delectable meat.   When they are full it is time for  grown up talk,  educated conversation,  try to keep it clean, it’s too humiliating to be asked to leave.   They are fine if I sit at the small table,  there are too many things that I remind them of.

 

 

 

 

Slow Shot…by Gurkski

Comments are closed here, the original can be found at Dithyrambs and Ditties

 

Two  glasses sit before me. One breathes brandy  and a friendly pond  of water rests in the other.  After dimming the lights, I smoke a cigarette, close my eyes and meditate on the state of the world and why the Dalai Lama always smiles.

I stretch ,  caress the brandy glass and let my nostrils make first contact with the sharp scent  of the spirit,  roll the brandewijn  in my mouth.  When the burn begins pure water rinses down my disoriented tonsils. I pay mute homage to Pindar’s water is the noblest (hydor men ariston). I rest for half a stretched out minute.  Allowing another shot my tongue jumps tipsily. I let the glass of water rest.

I lower my  lids now,  communicate with the jinn in the bottle of brandy:  my sweet friend, where have you come from to dance down  my tongue and make my mind swirl like a harlequin in spring?  Of course there is no answer, I must take another sip, dip my tongue in the pond of fire, then I can hear you sing. ” Master, I grant you free three shots  before you’ll start to feel the pain of my company”.

I take my shot, followed by a gasp.  My jinn moans low and soft and snuggles up and starts to caress me and she gets wet from tears of lust. I court her with a spray of harvest colors in my voice,  red,  golden and brown, the yellow and the dark. I relax. “You  need more, I know,  and I will feed you candied pearls of life”.  I like  how you touch my mind and how the liquid shape of you melts into mine. I bathe the soft tissue of lips and gum in soothing water while all my thoughts disappear into light blue.