A Poet’s soft gaze
waits in my doorway,
an empty bowl in his hands,
carved from moonlight.
I search my room,
my ribcage,
the hollows of my life
for something that can fill it.
The heartwood exhales,
splitting with a quiet sigh.
Its resin beads like tears,
its scent rises – sharp, clean,
like rain on iron.
From its hollow,
a paper bird slips free,
printed in the language of another country.
Its wings beat weakly –
not enough to carry him far –
yet I press it into his palms
and it shivers there like love.
I split the silence again
and find sixty silver moons –
the last constellation in my sky.
I place them one by one
into the waiting bowl,
and whisper, This is all of me.
Beyond the wall,
a vessel of dawn waits,
light pooling at her feet
as if the future is leaking through.
Her shadow spills long across the floor,
and a tree of silence grows beside her,
its roots humming: He will not walk empty-handed.
A child of wind
opens a door like a page –
the air turns, and I see:
a lap filled with milk and sun,
tiny stars nursing at her breast,
the next constellation already alive.
A veil lifted –
and a woman steps through,
In her hands,
a poem blooms like a wound and a flower at once.
She reads, captivated,
as each line pulls the darkness apart
thread by shining thread,
until the last stanza falls
like a stone into water –
and the whole vision clears,
its meaning rippling outward,
touching every corner of the room.
I wake with my palms still open.
What I gave was small,
but it glows like salt on the earth,
drawing a line the dark cannot cross
until the morning comes.
The haunting memories of rain falling on a hot tin roof at twilight is a thought to explore. Fantastic!
Adagio, Thank you so much! I love that image too – rain on a hot tin roof has such a haunting, nostalgic sound to it. I’m glad it resonated with you!
And so, there I was, waking sleepily into the weekend, burning croissants and telling my drug neighbour to turn her music down. And I merely flicked and kicked the internet, turning dark cyber skies to sky blue. Posted a tatty scribble which had straddled my night, and…and…in my apathetic Saturday encountered these words of such beauty & depth. Your partner is such a lucky person to wake next to such an alphabet. May every Sunday of your life be sensual and filled with flower blooms. Poetess, this Welshman salutes you!
Ghosteen, what a beautiful message to wake to – thank you! I’m smiling at the image of burnt croissants and dark cyber skies turning blue. And that “tatty scribble that straddled your night” – I adore that! Your words feel like a benediction, a blessing I’ll gladly carry into my Sunday. May your Sundays, too, be strung with music, warmth, and a touch of magic. Salute returned from across the sea, my dear poet!
– RomaJ
Measured my life in song. I’m a disciple of Morrissey and Nick Cave. This is truly an astounding poem and I know a little about these things. If I could take a poem into my bed, it would be this
Ghosteen, Thank you so much! I’m especially touched by the beautiful image of the poem being one you’d take into your bed – that’s the highest compliment to its intimacy and atmosphere. I really appreciate your generous words.
It’s really strange being called Ghosteen. Just always call me Rob. You have opened my cynical heart and just let poetic rivers flow and flow. So thank you Roma
Rob! Thank you. You have a beautiful, cynical heart. Keep those poetic rivers flowing.
Hoi hoi Chère R.,
Hope this finds you well?!
There’s, I believe, urgent sensual longing and the gentle, floating kind.
And now that I typed this, I believe I read somewhere (your intro?) that you try to re-envision your dreams?
If this is your intention, I honestly believe that you’ve made a stellar performance with this one.
I’ll be back tomorrow to read it all over again. For another eye full of beauty.
I’m eager to read more of your writes!
Have a beautiful weekend!
Kind regards, Gus
Hello Gus,
Thank you so much! Yes, you’ve guessed it -this poem is my attempt to re-envision a powerful dream I had, so I’m delighted to hear the translation worked for you.
I especially appreciate you noting that distinction between types of longing; it’s a beautiful way to interpret the poem’s atmosphere. I’m honored you’ll be back for a second read!
Wishing you a beautiful weekend!
Kind regards,
Roma
Beautifully penned, Roma. Into the book it belongs! Love the imagery and wordplay my friend. This write has depth and layers, excellent work. Appreciate you.
Damian
I really appreciate you taking the time to read this. Hearing that the imagery and layers/depth came through is exactly what I hoped for -thank you for that excellent feedback. I appreciate you, friend!
This is very good. The “biology” of the pic you chose to head this is also noted… I do not know if you’re male or female, but the imagery of a “peaceful” man entering the haven of the tree’s sacred spot, surrounded by random um, orbs (not!) leads the reader towards the explanation within the poem. Thus the poem is gentle but definite.
Your writing ability is top notch. The result is a very well done poem. You’ve a great talent at writing.
Styxian, hello.
Thank you very much for this perceptive comment.
I especially appreciate you noting the poem’s “gentle but definite” quality – that was exactly the intention.
To clarify the image for this poem is a representation of The Heartwood, of a tree. The heartwood is the dense, central core of the tree. The oldest, strongest part that provides its structural strength and holds its entire history.
In the poem, it refers to something deep within the self: the sacred, structural core of one’s life, holding fundamental strength and preserved history. The “splitting” is the painful, necessary act of sacrificing these core resources for love.
And for the record, I am a woman. Thank you again for your generous reading!
Tremendous work. Powerful.