the Park

Fascinated by his shabby sweater, cheap shoes, and expensive attaché I follow him through the park. Sitting down on a park bench he opens his brief case and pulls out an apple. He motions me sit beside him and offers me the apple. I take it though I’m not hungry, I resist the urge to arrange his unkempt hair and run my fingers over his unshaven chin. His dark eyes look through mine and into a well hidden soul.  He says he hasn’t worked in  a while and spends most of his afternoons by the pond watching the swans. Feeling as though I am eavesdropping a secret I stand, say good bye and lie, I have to go, I am late for an appointment. He asks me to come back again. I nod with no intention of returning.

That night I wake in a sweat. I rise and stand before my mirror, my hands lightly caress my body and my eyes spill unexplained tears. Compelled by longing we meet again and again. We feed yellow green pears to one another and like children our laughter echoes among the trees. The limbs of the Birch trees are alive with birdsong as though they sense our sweetness.

Too soon winter is breathing her cold breath through us. A snowy owl watches from the brittle bark of a branch. Where is the sun that burned like fire? The park is blanketed with hoarfrost, still camellia blossoms cling to broad leaved evergreens. Birds pull their frozen wings tight against their tiny skeletons.  Spring has shunned the park of sorrow. I tug his overcoat tightly across my shoulders, run my shiver of fingers through its rough threads. Overhead gray clouds reflect his eyes.  With no way to hold it back, we have lost one another. I call his name in the silence, in return a wild orchid tumbles down , I reach out my hand and catch it.

PS: written by John Hulme

“A shabby, tangled sweater, and a shabby, tangled life.

> Sometimes the most beautiful  of lives is just a fibre away from the ugliest.

> I’m scared, and lost, and alone,

> with the world’s most precious secret tucked underneath my arm,

> wondering whether to bury it in hoar frost or hold it high”.

copyright John Hulme

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Colline Cook-Chun

Sweet Bird

After you left I jogged  along the shoreline past the carnation houses  along the jetties where scattered surfers waded hoping to catch the last waves.  A haze veiled the shore and vanished in the rain.  Globules of salt encrusted my eyelids and each breath ripped upward from my belly tearing through my lungs. I sank down on the damp sand behind the old seafood restaurant. Unearthly howls carried out across the waves dissolving into the sea.

I want to believe that the ocean is a froth meringue not a murky depth where in heavy boots you wade past that place where you lose your grip and the rush of saltwater fills your eyes and mind but not the air.

Sea gulls swoop and squawk,  perfect black angles against the sky. I open my book by Tennessee Williams whose writing I abhor but the edge of its cover was leaning out as I passed the bookcase, Sweet Bird of Youth.

*So I close my eyes softly
’til I become that part of the wind
that we all long for sometime”

*Stevie Nicks

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

All I Really Want

In this heat I wonder if I am coherent. Without  you I feel a visceral  loneliness.  When we are together  we make small talk about  the weather and how the dog still barks when the summer  heat forces me to fling open the shutters filling the room with the sweet scent of night blooming jasmine.  I  tell you that  I am still  waiting  for the oil to dry on the painting that  I promised you, acutely aware of the momentum of  words and the intense desire for the feel of your hand  on my inner thigh. My own hands are  worn raw in search of common ground.   How can you trust me with your past, the woman in Berlin, that year in Turkey?  I am so afraid of implicit truth still I take all you give as though each confidence is not an invasion.
To be honest all I really want is to get drunk on your  impossible eyes and  draw maps across your belly.

Night Music

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
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