Quiet girl.

 

I would liken you,

To a night without stars,

Were it not for your eyes,

I would liken you,

To sleep without dreams,

Were it not for your songs.

 

(Langston Huges 1902-1967)

 

 



A Map Of Love.

 

Your face,

More than other's faces,

Map of the half-remembered places

I have come to

While I slept,

Continents a dream has kept

Secrets of all walking folk

Untill your face,

I awoke,

And remembered then the shore

And the dark interior.

 

(Donald Justice, A map of love)

 

 

 

 



Of memories in my head.

 

I hear the familiar sound

Of memories in my head,

Dancing wildly all around,

Outside the plants are dead,

And cold wind blows,

Branches without leaves,

Scratch at the windows,

I wonder,

If the tree too, grieves,...

 

(Winter blues, Charlotte S Harger, 1966)



Cormorants.

 

All afternoon the sea was a muddle of birds

Black and spiky,

Long necked, slippery,

Down they went

Into the waters for the poor,

Blunt headed silver,

They live on for a little while.

God,

How did it ever come to you

to invent time?

I dreamed at night of the birds,

Of the beautiful dark seas,

They push trough.

 

(Mary Oliver)

 

 



Flower's shadow.

 

To wait for the moon

I am sitting in the western parlour,

To greet the wind

I have left the door ajar,

When a flower's shadow stirred

and brushed the wall,

For a moment I thought

It is the shadow of a lover coming.

 

(Yuan Chen, AD 799-831)



A walk.

 

My eyes already touch the sunny hills,

Going far ahead from the roads where I have begun,

So we are grasped by what we cannot grasped,

It has inner light, even from a distance,

 

And charges us, even if we do not reach it

into something else, which, hardly sensing it,

We already are, a gesture waves us on

Answering our own wave,

But what we feel is the wind in our faces.

 

(Rainer Maria Rielke)



The day is gone.

 

When the blue shadows

Pull themselves across the hills

And white sinks to the twilight

The blue snow of twilight

There's an illution of beginning

Here, where the field intersects the sky

Beyond the fence

Where the crystals slowly scurry

from the hills

It is a foreign house

There's nothing to unpack

It is not yet night

And the day with it's silence

Refused to talk

The day is gone

It is a blessing

Let it be a blessing.

 

(from, feminine winter cold, Sarah Mclay)



Rain.

(drawing, after Bansky's mural, Buenos Aires)

 

Listen to me as one listens to the rain,

Not attentive, not distracted,

Light footsteps, thin drizzles,

Water that is air, air that is time,

The day is still leaving,

The night has yet to arrive,

Figurations of mist,

At the turn of the corner,

Figuration of time,

At the bend of this pause.

 

Air and water, words with no weight,

What we are and are,

The days and years this moment,

Weightless time and heavy sorrow,

The years go by, the moments return.

In another time that is now,

Listen to the footsteps of time,

A restless garden adrift- go in

Your shadow covers this page.

 

(From; as one listens to the rain, Octavio Paz)