love – Page 5 – three good words

March 20, 2015

the art of life

freedom
is not words spoken
alone

it is sang out loud
in the silence that is accepted
across a bridge, dividing
knowing what needs demanding
a rule unbroken
a law of life.

but those sunk in silence
deaf to the marvelous sound
will tell you, whisper, shout:
spring does not exist
fall is an advertisement
summer a ludicrous myth
but winter the truth that has come

not snow-sparkling white
children laughing during snowball fights
but wet and grey
full of frostbite
that’s the one
that is the silence that has come

until one, two, three and more
sing of the sun
bright in the skies
flowers below, shining
trees like seas
green and grassy
life bursting in all colours
rejoicing
second to none.

…

she laughs when i say
i am (not: shall be) myself
i have a place within
that is sacred, me

and there is that moment
the question, hope, wonder:
how long until that laughter fades?

until understanding pervades
that each and all
have their holy place
beating under their ribs
smooth on their skin?

freedom is not a request
it never was a favour
it is necessary
the natural state of all things
but no one said it was easy

like canvas waiting
clay cool in one’s hands
the art of life is
living
loving
being
free
.

March 12, 2015March 16, 2015

I wrote this some time ago, during one of those bad moments when the realisation that I just was really truly absolutely ohmygoodness definitely not there yet was very real. Ah, but the great thing about great writers is that, never mind how they make you feel like last week’s left overs, writing-wise, they also help you know that it is possible to do better, be better, try your best. Reading their writing is, next to the great story, also this lovely gift: somewhere, somehow, someone was able to touch that thing that is divine and turn it into perfect word-gold. Terry Pratchett was one of them. Dear Sir (he was knighted), you’ll be sorely, sorely missed. You made so many people laugh and think and feel and laugh again so many times, the world has really lost a true genius today. Rest in Peace. Or as the Librarian would say:
Ook!

…

Gosh, if I could only come up with something like Überwald, Bess Pelargic, The Agatean Empire, 71-hour Achmed or the Octarine Grass Country. Or simply the Anthropomorphic Personification of the Ultimate Certainty, the Grim Reaper a.k.a. Mr. Door. Terry Pratchett is a genius, a real and true genius, though I still think Rincewind is complete and utter twerp. The Night Watch with Commander Vimes and Carrot Ironfoundersson + rag-tag band of misfits and miscreants, the Witches of Lancre + kingdoms and villages, Ms Aching and the Nac Mac Feegles, the University faculty + Librarian, and all the city Guilds + C.M.O.T. Dibbler, Mr Lipwig, Ms Dearheart and whatever new Scheme Moist von is up to, and then, of course, the Patrician with ever resourceful and loyal Drumknott, they’re all breathtakingly, mind-bendingly, side-splittingly fabulous – but Rincewind just puts me off. He really really really annoys me. The only great thing about Rincewind is The Luggage (Sapient Pearwood! Imagine! The madness! The magnificence!). Barely managed The Colour of Magic, and only because I sat through that ghastly mash-up of a movie. Afterwards I had to read it. Rincewind is that character who just makes you want to reach into the book and slap people, meaning him. Though some of the scenes with him in it are utter hilarity.

…

Oh and one more thing: Really, the Luggage. The Luggage. I dare you to come up with something as hilariously insane as the Luggage. Go on. Try it. I shall sink my reading teeth into it, promise.
j.d.

March 8, 2015

that is music

sometimes you need it
want it
must be it
that beat that rings through the bone

it’s always there
lingering just beyond
a silent rhythm
nascent in every song

there it is
that thump and clap
feet on the floor
hands off your lap
high up, together

no excuses
dance
dance!
together
you too over there
get up!
move it
shake it
groove it

and celebrate once more
this marvelous thing
that is music
that is joy
that is life
in a moment: forever
one
.

February 21, 2015

e.motion

there’s this fear of
soppy
of too much saccharine ugh
or that thing now
right in the feelz

which makes that which feels
a thing that lives and exists
on its own
an unprotected entity
like a punchbag on a rope
ready to be hit at random
unexpectedly

while what we’re really after is
emotion
(I think, I hope)
those deep waves that draw you under
that vast ocean that is truly overwhelming
terrifying
exhilarating
never genuinely controlled

and always so unbelievably unseen
unless someone cries or smiles
howls and screams
falls over with laughter
breaks down in tears, weeping.

so many words
for one
not so small thing
that entails movement, motion
only with an ego in it, shortened to e
e.motion
the motion in me.

it is the ‘I’ in it
so vulnerable, so open
like a child naked on the lawn
running under the sprinklers
laughing and loving
without any care in the world
it is that once-known ‘me’
that makes us run and hide

when unseen motion erupts
out of the unknown dark
uncannily familiar
suppressed only so far
even a pressure cooker can only take so much.

how write it though?
that is the question.
how be at the center
of palpitations sacred to the slightest touch?

not quietly, never timidly
there is that demand
that everything be shown
not mimicked, but known

even the sticky parts
those tooth-achingly sweet
icky parts
that we all carry hidden deep down

in our cynical postmodern hyperreal
ever-connected
over-protected
lonely little souls

then again, one wrong word can ruin a whole scene.

it’s tricky
and mistakes will be made
oh, I promise
I’ve just started yet…

but then one must try
and find this voice
that speaks
of those ancient things
almost mystic
this crazy little thing
everyone calls el oh ve e
all this motion in so many me’s
.

February 6, 2015

the letter

pen 3

…yours ever, &c
an abrupt ending
opening words
pouring out in a sudden wave –
what madness is this?
to deny, to refuse
to insist on such needless things
as countenance, propriety
We must know our place…
but what is that
in the face of something so divine
as genuine, true, complete feeling?
they may be young, yes,
but not, to his mind, daft beyond decree
there was truth in this
and beauty beyond what any mortal could reach.

quick, quick
cut paper on surface
pen scratching ink
curves, loops, dashes
written in haste
soaked with feeling
demands, pleas
hoping, not jesting
trying to appease
papers waxed closed
an address written, posted
there, there
it is done
it is written
she must understand
the truth, the beauty
of such spontaneous overflow of feeling.

yet the torment begins
the second the envelope is sealed, posted
that torturous patience
of long hours waiting
for all to be read, understood
and hopefully, hopefully
answered, agreed
to continue the private, silent communication
where all the tools given are ink, paper
memory, imagination
and far too much feeling recollected in tranquility.

and thus it arrives
the letter
hastily opened, outside, far
hidden away from the curious
the nosy
young feet walking
young hands turning pages, paper
touched by others, close, known
young eyes reading, re-reading
reading once more
You must… You cannot…
half daze, half delirium, all delight
searching in every word
all the fields of meaning
until a call demands obedience
there are duties, all and one,
that must be followed.

and there it is, a clock chimes
it is time to visit
the one to whom communication
is deemed legitimate
not, in fact, the other
whose words lay pressed lightly
tightly against the young breast.

but no, alas
no one stands waiting
there is no need to play the proper lady
there is time yet to sit in plush seats, reading
what none must know
those felt words written
mapping what lies only
between a you, a me,
and countless yours ever, &c
that most intimate of privacy
daring thoughts, heartfelt feelings
quiet wishes, hidden dreams

I can… I will… I must…
hand-written
as if spoken from mouth to ear
now held and seen, repeated
in most natural light
falling through windows, glowing in trees
until the sun sets to darkness
brightened by the warmth of a flame

a night, a silence
filled with hope for the morrow
heartbeats young, doubting, certain
waiting with joy and fear
mixed to one sensation
true, beautiful, free.