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Shades of Blue

Coming up for air

reaching our very ends
when all that’s left is wounds
where blue hours don’t spell dawn
but dry days and a brittle sun
reveals dreams’ corpses

we board the ship
unfettered in the night
lonely stars eternities away
a broken heart’s compass
to navigate by
or the sound of the waves
reminiscent of storms to old to remember

a whisper out of the blue
a faint memory, perhaps
a color of tomorrows breeze

reluctantly we take our astrolabe
not wanting to raise false hope, possibly
and then we just hoist them, our sails

and as if it had waited for this
as if the stars had only wanted desperate kisses
these wounds do raise a wind
to kindred harbours
where we’ll meet
blessed by the blue

(for Jean)

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As One Listenes To The Rain

I just read, and re-read this poem, that was brought to my attention by Zayra Yves and it touches me deeply…

—————-

Listen to me as one listens to the rain,
not attentive, not distracted,
light footsteps, thin drizzle,
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,
figurations of time
at the bend in this pause,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
without listening, hear what I say
with eyes open inward, asleep
with all five senses awake,
it’s raining, light footsteps, a murmur of syllables,
air and water, words with no weight:
what we are and are,
the days and years, this moment,
weightless time and heavy sorrow,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
wet asphalt is shining,
steam rises and walks away,
night unfolds and looks at me,
you are you and your body of steam,
you and your face of night,
you and your hair, unhurried lightning,
you cross the street and enter my forehead,
footsteps of water across my eyes,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
the asphalt’s shining, you cross the street,
it is the mist, wandering in the night,
it is the night, asleep in your bed,
it is the surge of waves in your breath,
your fingers of water dampen my forehead,
your fingers of flame burn my eyes,
your fingers of air open eyelids of time,
a spring of visions and resurrections,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
the years go by, the moments return,
do you hear the footsteps in the next room?
not here, not there: you hear them
in another time that is now,
listen to the footsteps of time,
inventor of places with no weight, nowhere,
listen to the rain running over the terrace,
the night is now more night in the grove,
lightning has nestled among the leaves,
a restless garden adrift-go in,
your shadow covers this page.

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It’s in the Air

Thank you Ria for posting this in your interesting blog, it really turned me on. So here are the Naturally 7 on the Metro in Paris…

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AF-KagTq7qY

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To Our Eyes Only

I’m not trying to save the world or even myself for that matter.
I believe not in the necessity of saying anything to anybody.
I’m just – people… expressing, as birds are singing.

I feel myself to be part of this multiverse of diverse voices, vistas and felt-spaces that flow around – creating and being created in this mystery called reality.

I have no hope for a better future. Actually I don’t need a future at all – if there is future, now it will take care of itself. What is not will not become, nor will it ever happen – that is, after all, its nothingness.

My movement is the very movement of time itself – I am time… eternally now inhabiting these whereabouts here – me here, you there and they everywhere else (all these other ‘heres’ that I know of and not know of).
Being time, you are close, they always a bit further away – coming closer they flow into another you, even closer still becoming we… always becoming.

Who are you? I am being asked, and in the question I’m flowing into another way of being here, a questioned being. Never knowing who I am but in the question, an absence flowing into presence – and you.

You flowing into being there for me here
And I here becoming present for you there
– I, never being there, and you never being here; what makes you into you is being there, and me into me is being here. We always flowing into being for each other
Somewhere

Looking for where I end and you begin
I cannot find it – fuzzy limits
My ending and your beginning somewhere in between
Imagination drawing a line

I’m singing a song I’d like you to hear
And maybe, if you wish, to sing along
Not to join!
No, hearing you tuning in
I tune into you
Hearing one melody appearing
Floating around for some time
There’s no more need to know
where we end or begin.

This is not about finding the truth but fitting in more snugly
Into the flows and eddies and currents of everywhere, including nowhere
A revelation in as much as you care, and I care to see us revealed
Revealing as much as we care to reveal
Of what is revealing itself over there and over here
And somewhere between and beyond.

A free floating song
Fallible, diverse, incompletely
Always incomplete and eager to reveal itself
To Our Eyes Only.

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In Dark Arms

Not blinded by the sun, at night, looking up:
Around us all space, cosmos.
Amidst the glistening darkness we are
breathing, we become
embraced by everlasting darkness.
Held by the moment
carried in the arms of dark open space
we, orbiting, turn towards the luminous body
warming and enlightening us.

Rising from nights embrace
we go about our manyfold business of light.

Until twilight when we can see
where this globe we are twists and turns:
And we are embraced again by the darkening night
in which our central luminary is among countless sparkling beings.

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Acts of Helplessness – by Rumi

Here are the miracle-signs you want: that
you cry through the night and get up at dawn, asking,
that in the absence of what you ask for your day gets dark,
your neck thin as a spindle, that what you give away
is all you won, that you sacrifice belongings,
sleep, health, your head, that you often
sit down in a fire like aloes wood, and often go out
to meet a blade like a battered helmet.

When acts of helplessness become habitual,
those are the signs.

But you run back and forth listening for unusual events,
peering into faces of travelers.
“Why are you looking at me like a madman?”
I have lost a friend. Please forgive me.

Searching like that does not fail.
There will come a rider who holds you close.
You faint and gibber. The uninitiated say, “He’s faking.”
How could they know?
Water washes over a beached fish, the water
of those signs I just mentioned.

Excuse my wandering.
How can one be orderly with this?
It’s like counting leaves in the garden,
along with the song-notes of partridges,
and crows.

Sometimes organization
and computation become absurd.

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Climbing knowledge mountain

Climbing knowledge mountain
to its trancendental understanding summit
insightful vistas brightly abound

The green unfathomable dragon shape
Its rythmic curves and jewel sparks
meanders deeply and alive
through the valley

The climber shouts,
“Join me up here in the clear air of light.”
The dragon grumbeling,
“Where would you be with out me?”

Wherever I go
I revere the local godheads.

***

I don’t really know what this poetry means but it came to me – in English! – two days ago and I wanted to let you partake in my wonder…