somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands.

e.e. cummings.
pat: (Default)
( Mar. 2nd, 2006 09:07 am)
Although I do not hope to turn again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn

Wavering between the profit and the loss
In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying
(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things
From the wide window towards the granite shore
The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
Unbroken wings

And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth

This is the time of tension between dying and birth
The place of solitude where three dreams cross
Between blue rocks
But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away
Let the other yew be shaken and reply.

Bless├Ęd sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit
of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated

And let my cry come unto Thee.

from "Ash Wednesday," by T.S. Eliot
pat: (Default)
( Oct. 14th, 2002 09:52 pm)
You stalk my dreams, my fantasies
The curve of your lips, the line of your back
And yet.... I do not know you, not really
Not you, chimaera, but
The knife's edge of opportunity, desire
teases at the edges of my heart, my wrists
I wander lost in labyrinths of my soul
I do not know myself
And wake afraid.
pat: (Default)
( Oct. 9th, 2002 12:52 am)
The nights are longer now
The twilight comes hard upon the setting sun
That cools and fades each passing day
The dark-haired woman with the clear grey eyes
That see into souls
Daughter of the welcoming darkness
Smiles gently, enigmatically
Reaches out
And pulls the shroud of fog
Closer round our hearts


pat: (Default)


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