Tag Archives: Love

“This You Chose”

“This You Chose”

This you chose, you know, the lethal wound, external fire,
Internal final cut the cleanest; the choice was never mine.
This you chose; your arms, your scent defined
The borders, walls, the floors, the exposure. Your desires
Say nothing past the yesterdays of pre-dawn, and glad
I was to rest the while, and glad you are that I am gone.
But nothing’s rendered in the late night’s song,
The me in you, and yes! You know the sad
Result: that moon’s pain can not know a sequel.
The senses, these you know , with no contempt,
But radiant resignation in the hours of heat and pure idolatry. Spent,
The sentence stands within this world. These final sentiments rule;
The veil, the truths we’ve always known; the hourglass, the idols of our nights,
Its sands, a closing hush of breath at daybreak when all our meteors take flight.

“But That We All Are”


“But That We All Are”

But that we all are on the List and die
And once again appear on someone’s right
Or left-hand honoured roll in fame and light
And all that can be cherished, or idolised
Within a spectrum visible, allied,
Augmented well beyond the common sight,
Imagination rife with conjecture’s might,
A lunacy to thoughtful evidence, despised,
The greatest fear to those who would have it so,
Impediment to all that is the mind,
Bliss to hearts who bear the Holy Texts
Of all humanity; the choices grow
To what has sanctified the quest, the line
Of clear succession of life and what comes next.

Matt Adnate

…paintings above, Matt Adnate;  below, Michael Staniak…

“Just What You Meant”

“Just What You Meant”

Just what you meant is not too clear today
While all the world feels indisposed but then, aside
From that, it seems the effort to decide
To see must equal if not dwarf the weight
Of longing to be done with this and out
The door and down the street, and gone.
You might well ask what siren draws me out along
A path to worlds away from you, when the route,
The melody we felt, inevitable as the juggernaut of dawn
And all we pledged through pale eternities in this
Fresh day still shone. Together, a certainty that ruled those early mists
Throughout the early morning’s night, what had drawn
Us so close with lightning’s grease to both our spirits’ light?
Instincts lost left walls of thought, but in the end,
all actions dulled as the sun rose and both of us took flight.

“A Pilot’s Flame”

“A Pilot’s Flame”

A pilot’s flame and ambergris, fire and smoke, these privy orizons
As dews appear upon the sight of buds along an early summer’s talk
In the blind behind the backfields; still there is the chill,
a brief Nebraska morning’s walk
Through the shadows’ tides’ abiding shallows
in the breath of dawn; the garden
Path because we share so little
of the masters’ growth in blossoms’ bargains’
Fruits within us both and spare none, no idle chatter,
indeed a pittance of a fee for angels; pillars, cornstalks,
Arm in arm—so much can lead the way to joy within a cosmic room—locked
To one to yet another and another in the repetitious staid negotiation
of noxious clouds and dark but sterile clods, the feeble vain
Attempt to mask indignity in stride until desire’s destination’s
Reached—we know by stealth to find a symmetry in solutions,
Solace in respite from the others at the solstice
of that brief but potent spot.
A proper pole to pierce the continent,
a place we’ve never seen and always sought;
I need nothing more to see your face, to read your book
to savour proctors for procrastination
For the sake of pleasures found in greater prisms
for a lighter thought than pure imagination.



“The Underside”

…dedicated to the many who wonder what’s become of all that is and where the bottom is…

“The Underside”

“‘The underside’ … it’s not just in tandem, ‘Once, it’s everywhere! … sigh …'”
And she was right. It seems the predilection toward
The animal appears where there is none; the tsunami’s force is froward
Where there is no place to go but straight to hell for all but those who fly
Or settle for a second-rate mortgage off the high road’s endless traffic.
And we along the shores of what’s become the greater sea who sit
And sign within ourselves no higher there, nor lower here, are aware of it:
There is no real rest from those who foment
Condescension to Creation, laced with lies
To trap the innocent, and revel in the vanishing point
Below the picture, well beneath the edges or between the joints
Of slender bones and tissues in the body politic; cries
Will rise for them and for their victims and their families,
The “taken”, “took” and “broken for which poets scribble homilies.


“The tree outside the window taps very gently on the pane … I want to think quietly, calmly, spaciously, never to be interrupted, never to have to rise from my chair, to slip easily from one thing to another, without any sense of hostility, or obstacle. I want to sink deeper and deeper, away from the surface, with its hard separate facts. To steady myself, let me catch hold of the first idea that passes … Shakespeare … Well, he will do as well as another. A man who sat himself solidly in an arm-chair, and looked into the fire, so a shower of ideas fell perpetually from some very high Heaven down through his mind.”

The Mark on the Wall
Virginia Woolf

“Wife, child, brother, parents, friends…We come only to go apart again. It is one continuous movement. They move away from us, and we move away from them. The law of life can’t be avoided. The law comes into operation the moment we detach ourselves from our mother’s womb. All struggle and misery in life is due to our attempt to arrest this law or get away from it or in allowing ourselves to be hurt by it. The fact must be recognized. A profound unmitigated lonliness is the only truth of life.”

R. K. Narayan
[October 10, 1906 — May 13, 2001]
(shortened from Rasipuram Krishnaswami Iyer Narayanaswami)
The English Teacher




…a weak ghazal

Where can your tongue lead me? To the last day’s end? The evening?
I greet you with hope, you spend, not me but, yes! the evening.

They once knew we knew but in the mêlée. Only the evening.
So, then, we suspend the morning miles; now, then the evening.

And where did we go wrong? To the right? The left? The evening?
And when were we ever really free? In the day? The evening?

Your end or mine, what’s the difference? A simple evening.
A weakening, perhaps? Yes, and more! The final evening?

Concentric circles mark the path to finish the evening.
Round the bend, or to the point of no return, the evening.

Concomitant boxes house the letters in the evening.
Houses transcend the meaning of yet another evening.

And for Once the portion and the whole define the evening.
The end? A terse beginning, an hour within an evening.

“Don’t Get Me Wrong”

Maya Kokocinski Molero (5)

“Don’t Get Me Wrong”

Don’t get me wrong, nothin’ personal in this:
I turned to you; you said you had to think.
No resistance here, take your time, and while I sink
Into your memory, I’ll just mosey on, and kiss
The future for the two of us and by the time you land
In glory you can tell me how you missed me
And all we’ve seen together. Yes, of course, “We’ll wait, we’ll see!”
You won’t remember how we both have outlived our fans,
And verily vowed we’d meet again to celebrate
A victory together. Ah! But we both know where
Where this is leading, and perhaps, just possibly we’ve fared
Too well on separate roads to make it so. What we calibrate
Today cannot survive another round. No feeble memory outlasts
Efforts growing thin; we must simply believe it now, and let it pass.

…painting by Maya Kokocinski Molero…

“The Commonplace”

Daud Akhriev _ paintings

“The Commonplace”

The commonplace where once was someone’s
Hospices in distances and not so very far from me,
I knew her actually
As twilight and a thousand blazing suns
Reduced to changelings, now a masterpiece
Of onyx and sardonic, now a memory and somewhere’s
Afterthoughts; a hundred places where she feared
To go—or so Millay declared—a timed release, a lease
On what she thought was love. Without the sound
Of pen to page, nothing’s left to write, no doubt knowing
I’ll never see the end of it; no glowing
Tribute in a minor poem capturing all I’ve found;
A peace and distance in the grace that somehow
I was left but scents and lint and shadows.

…painting by Daud Akhriev…

“Pleased and Pleasing”


“Pleased and Pleasing”

Pleased and pleasing, crystalline,
Your eyes
Supine and surprising, patterned,
Your body
Pressed and pressing, joined,
Your hands
Allowed and always, affirming,
Your face
Signed and signing, searching,
Your spirit
Thought and thinking, inspiring,
Your glory
Sought and seeking, destined,

“And While We Love”


“And While We Love”

And while we love we see but one of us
May pass through a single space, one
Will ride the northern run
Toward the right and trust
The left will soon produce
A southbound pilgrim free
And safely bound, and while his
Soul’s in transit, quietly he reduces
His necessities, and so it goes with fellow travellers
Along the needle’s eye and so it is within this austere place. Passengers
Once removed within the present do not truck with languor,
Neither do they traffic with a mutual struggle; revellers
At feast and lovers in their thrall arrive too soon
To seek the waterline alone, and no one gets to shoot the moon.


…art by grenigog of DeviantArt…