Poetry

The Poplars
10-06-2012

Nascent is the night at dusk,
Lost in the whirl of the wait,
The last glowing rays pass away,
As the brightness of her eyes grows dim.

Sitting in the shade of the poplars,
Her blinded eyes transfixed,
The view extends infinitely in front of her,
But the darkness arrives.

Veiled pupils are lost into the void,
Among these damned treacherous shadows,
A single pearl makes its appearance,
Without begging attention.

The sound of silence oppresses,
Giving rise to impatience,
As hope seems increasingly absurd,
Holding on throughout the hardwoods.

Then her thoughts flutter,
In the intoxicating speed of the wind,
It stirs up her hopes,
And the adequacy of her senses.

Darkness seeps treacherously,
Between the branches surrounding it,
Evading any enlightenment,
Concealing any conviction.

When just as suddenly,
The haze prompting her blindness,
Slowly withdraws into the abyss,
And hence the summits reappeared.

At the dawn of the dying night,
Soothed by nascent hope,
The early red reflections,
Ignite her eyes again.

 
The French Yearning 
Originally called 'I Miss Paris (In Capitals)

I miss waking up to the sound of the busy streets,
and the yells of the vendor men
rousing the rest of the Latin Quarter awake.

I miss the smell of rose scented soap in our hotel room,
and the laced curtains tickling my naked feet as I stand by the window.

I miss climbing down the spiral staircase two swift steps at a time,
and catching the buttery whiff of my morning croissant
waiting for me in the breakfast parlour.

I miss tearing off one piece at a time,
and savouring each bite for several seconds
before indulging in a new one.

I miss waving goodbye to the smiling lobbyist
before venturing out into the streets of Paris,
and telling everybody else to hurry, hurry, hurry!

I miss walking on the warm cobblestones,
and admiring the flower-clad terraces.

I miss the street vendors, the Nutella pancakes,
melting in my mouth -- the homey cafés,
the fancy restaurants, the grand museums
and magnificent churches.

I miss the musicians, the painters,
the mimes, and all the beautiful Parisians
in their customary black outfits.

I miss looking over the Seine,
listening to a whole new set of sounds,
that first arrives at the break of dawn,
watching as the city succumbs to the night.

I miss walking home with my heels dangling in one hand,
and humming along with the music in the clubs.

I miss looking up at the stars,
wondering if I'll ever see them the same way
while looking up from some place else.

I miss lying in my hotel bed by my lonesome,
and thinking of ways that tomorrow could possibly match this day.

Obeisance

It's such a powerful event,
With a roar of outrage you can't fathom...
As it follows – and devourers.

Unintended.

Just stand still, paralysed with guilt,
But perfectly content with whatever.

Now,

Add a dash of narcissism,
Just a pinch of lust.
And with a vast amount of bravery,
I reckon that's enough.

Though the taste is always sweeter,
With a little bit of love.

As the treacherous mirror breaks,
And the glass begins to fly...
It's time to catch the shards,
To forgive, forget and undress.

Just add a wide-eyed observer,
And you've got yourself a mess.