Archives for posts with tag: beauty

Sometimes, at night,

when the wind finds time to rest

and the warm air of a spring day forgets to leave,

I walk outside

and down to the beach

and sit

and listen to the music that wafts

over everything beneath the candle-lit sky.

 

Waves lapping softly at the shore,

rushing and receding, rhythmic, hypnotic,

tidal melody lulling me

into a state of pacified rapture.

 

The moon sings to me, pouring honeyed ballads

into my ragged ears, the dark water

that stretches out before me,

vast and unyielding, is her violin. I feel the notes

floating, graceful and knowing, into the parts of me

that need it most.

 

Rising and falling, I let go and give in

to the lunaescence of the night,

let it blanket me in celestial beauty

until the time comes

to walk back home

and write a poem about it,

                                about you

                                         and your

                                                   song

Her lunaescence will floor you, maybe,

as it floors me,

constantly.

The metaphysical pull: I fall

into her orbit

and remain, completing

circuit after circuit,

 

gaining no ground yet maintaining proximity.

I’m kept at a distance, irrevocably so,

(for her gravity forbids

that desirous closeness),

I can only dream, day and night,

of lips and eyes—amongst

other things—fantasise

about a fateful day

that may never

arrive.

 

The night is good fertile ground

for a sower of verses’, said Borges, once;

and so I yield

to a perpetual night,

bathing in the glow

of her ethereality, scribbling

like a madman;

 

for she is a moon, my moon,

watchful yet oblivious,

eternal yet mortal,

aloof yet present;

she is

lunaescent.

I order a burger and Coke.

I could stay in the bar

and wait for the order to come up

and take it outside myself,

but I ask her to.

 

She’s running food.

I want to see her alone

just for a few seconds;

that’s all it’d be, that’s all I’d need.

 

With my bag and pint, I walk outside.

I sit, roll a cigarette, swig some Coke.

From my bag comes Fante.

Nicotine diffuses in my lungs.

That familiar cranial rush calms my nerves.

 

In my peripheral I see her walk

into the dusk, carrying my dinner

and someone else’s.

I take a drag and don’t look up. She puts the plate

in front of me. Fante folds in my lap.

 

I look up, smile, and mouth something

appreciative;

she looks at me

and speaks words so soft

they barely leave

her parted lips, borne away

on twilit winds. Her eyes

tell me more than those words

ever could.

 

For only a second

we’re locked in time, staring

into each other completely, searching

for what’s wanted.

 

It’s happened before but

not like this. This is different.

It’s a moment of rarity

where a myriad of possibilities abound

along that line of sight, where the future

creeps back in time

and taints the boundaries of the present

with promises of something else, something

more.

 

The moment passes

and she walks back into the bar,

one plate and few words lighter.

The fading light no longer lights up

her ethereal features yet I see them,

see her,

still,

in the halls

of my memory, draped

in sepia, near perfect, where

the passing of time

can only make her

more beautiful.

 

 

A villanelle in amphibrachic tetrameter. The rhyme is a little off but the meter is near spot on. This was a difficult prison of liberation.

 

That lady at nightfall, that terrible beauty,

I yearn, I lay pining, bereft and desiring,

engulfed by her image, she haunts me, she owns me.

 

At night, when it’s dark, she appears so minutely,

voyeur I am not though I stand here admiring

that lady at nightfall, that terrible beauty.

 

Beholding the screen, how my stomach knots tightly,

her eyes look straight through me, my being is sighing,

engulfed by her image, she haunts me, she owns me.

 

My mind is awash with such thoughts, so unsightly,

I bask in her glamour, my being is wanting

that lady at nightfall, that terrible beauty.

 

She knows not of me, it would be so unseemly

to know of a longing that’s born out of nothing:

engulfed by her image, she haunts me, she owns me.

 

A biased contract that I signed so willingly

continues for now, so I’m left here admiring

that lady at nightfall, that terrible beauty,

engulfed by her image, she haunts me, she owns me.

 

JvH

 

I sit across from her

and tell

her it’s been

too long;

she looks beautiful

like she always has

and I tell her, you’re

looking pretty like

always.

 

she smiles and says,

two skinny lattés

please,

to a man

not

me.

 

I roll and light

a cigarette.

 

I’ve missed you:

the sun doesn’t shine,

flowers will not

bloom,

the well is dry,

words elude me!

yet I feel it now,

don’t

you?

 

she says, thank

you, to that same

man

and she sips her coffee

and checks her phone

 

seeing you now has opened

doors that were

merely ajar, I say.

I am yours! everything! all of

it! I

LOVE YOU!

 

her coffee is gone,

mine is cold, and

her eyes do not

lie

and we sit there like

that

until the sun does

finally

set,

and it does finally set.

 

She exists in a world

beyond yours

and you know her only

in pixels:

tiny, amalgamated fragments

evincing

a reserved perfection—

subtle, humble,

ethereal.

 

Her chestnut flows

like streams of golden silk,

her pools of lapis lazuli

enrapture,

envelop,

they pull you in

and leave you

in want;

they bend your heart

to breaking.

 

Pixelated goddess!

digital siren!

oblivious to your crush

and the wreckage

that awaits when her

visual melody dashes you

upon the rocks of

reality.

 

But she does not exist

in your world, so

blindfold you eyes

and sail past that island

of virtual lies.

 

 

adolescent homeward journey,

shading gums, the creek,

kicking up dust

and piggybacking on

occasion,

when the day

permitted.

 

twenty-five minutes—

a mile?— of a

second brighter sun, a vaster

bluer sky, a smile whiter than

cumulonimbus calvus,

matching his gait,

saturating his

vision, encompassing his

mind, burning.

so many days,

so many walks home,

wasted,

engulfed by

the unwavering deluge

of time.

 

six years

and its beauty—her beauty—hasn’t

lost a touch of

what

it was,

back then.

 

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