Oh, Here

3 July 2014

Oh, Here

It’s all so close, everything tender and subtle, between-the-worlds. Work is what keeps me here, in the vale of beautiful nature; with you on either and neither side.  Here is quite a lot of it:

1 July 2014


On Your Long Journey

The way I whirl about in rain, the drops go flying every-way,
whilst I stand naked, silent, seeming motionless. The Moon’s display
has brought this on; I’ve come to stand, framed by the mirror on the door
through which you soon will come to pass because you want this meeting more
than any crossroads-joining you have ever sought to have or hold.
I am still a longing learner, but—for you I’ve grown so bold,
I lean upon a set of pinions borne by death’s own wind so wild,
I feel it spiral over oceans deeper than unreconciled
commitments, broken; love, disgraced; desire, not unfilled, but scorned.
Whirling round with drops of rain where love so real cannot be mourned,
fly every way there is to where you’ll wake up yet again, and be
a light of silent, kind devotion; motionless, yet more than free.

Your long journey, all my soul remembers, happened long before.
We’re not always on the lone sad side, my love; we own this door.

2 July 2014


The Turning Point

It thoroughly worsened a sad situation when you were in trouble and nobody came,
but ghosts who were laughing walked by, wrapped in linens of white overwritten—with some body’s name.
That was my face in the paper the morning you read it; I’m here now, laid out, dead and gone.
Oh, but I won’t be forgotten, my dearest one; hear what I sing and then wail my song on.
Hands are held out to you now, two in number, well-matched as are you with their bearer. The span
of their fingers is magic made manifest, even in vain. When they touch you, the soul of the man—
is lyric, electrical, known in the blood, bone, and fiber of you who are listening. Who
you have been and forever will be to this being of beauty is only impossibly true
to the very idea that sprang from the brow of a god who was hot with the terrible fires
we passed through to reach this conclusion, this temperament married through flame to the one that inspires
the future. The one shown to both of us, nightly, nightlong, seems so distant, and yet—passing soon
we’ll glow with the light of forever all through us, by right of the spark of a turning-point Moon.

3 July 2014


Impossibly Real

It woke on its own, and it went out awander. I knew I had seen a sad ghost waft on by
the moment I opened my eyes, but a slow sense of terrible dread fell in layers, and I
lay trapped under them, feeling the oncoming sorrow and loss of live blood through their weave and their weight.
Then the next mad dreams beset me. They came at me headlong, and nightlong, live terrible freight
conveying the strange fertile essence of futures to come amidst pictures of death eating life.
I have to follow, you know, where song leads me, and you were my song; you were song’s strong midwife,
and I was a creature who lay where your nursing was most beneficial, as healing came fast.
Now all is woken, and no one is needful; half-life is one with its real life at last.
In the near distance, the lowing of doves, and the bleating of sheep, and the soft wind that sighs
with rain in the morning, but full Moonlight shining this moment through beautiful, transparent skies.
Woken—how hard it must be to imagine, from where, starting out, all is blood in one field.
I don’t know how to lie—down—but I know how to wait in the place where we’ll rise up, revealed.
Over your sweet face too soon, the white sheet of discreet recognition that life is not here.
I shall not shine in your eyes till you seek me, but I know you will—love impossibly clear.




About J

formal verse poetry and commentary at rainharp.com
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