Saturday, October 1, 2016
Sunday, August 28, 2016
Storming in tea-cups
“a cup of tea is not a cup of tea. . .
when you make it at twilight,
just for him.”
just for him.”
call it a love potion.
liquid dreams.
scented desire.
wishes boiled to a blend.
liquid dreams.
scented desire.
wishes boiled to a blend.
three cinnamon pods
the dried darjeeling leaves
milk and pearl-white cream
simmering to a syrup to be filtered.
the dried darjeeling leaves
milk and pearl-white cream
simmering to a syrup to be filtered.
as you sweat in its vapours
and imagine how the tea tastes
against his lips his teeth his tongue
and the pale pink insides of his throat
and imagine how the tea tastes
against his lips his teeth his tongue
and the pale pink insides of his throat
as you stir in the sugar
and test a spoonful to see
if it stings and soothes and
stimulates the way you intended
and test a spoonful to see
if it stings and soothes and
stimulates the way you intended
as you pour it into his cup
with eyes mirroring supernovas and
study the desirable brown of the tea
with eyes mirroring supernovas and
study the desirable brown of the tea
an entire shade
that fits exactly
between the desert sand of your skin
and the date palm of his.
that fits exactly
between the desert sand of your skin
and the date palm of his.
almost the color
of your possible child.
of your possible child.
Saturday, July 9, 2016
Saturday, January 16, 2016
Things
My walking-stick, small change, key-ring,
The docile lock and the belated
Notes my few days left will grant
No time to read, the cards, the table,
A book, in its pages, that pressed
Violet, the leavings of an afternoon
Doubtless unforgettable, forgotten,
The reddened mirror facing to the west
Where burns illusory dawn. Many things,
Files, sills, atlases, wine-glasses, nails,
Which serve us, like unspeaking slaves,
So blind and so mysteriously secret!
They’ll long outlast our oblivion;
And never know that we are gone.
The docile lock and the belated
Notes my few days left will grant
No time to read, the cards, the table,
A book, in its pages, that pressed
Violet, the leavings of an afternoon
Doubtless unforgettable, forgotten,
The reddened mirror facing to the west
Where burns illusory dawn. Many things,
Files, sills, atlases, wine-glasses, nails,
Which serve us, like unspeaking slaves,
So blind and so mysteriously secret!
They’ll long outlast our oblivion;
And never know that we are gone.
Thursday, January 14, 2016
HAD I the heavens' embroidered cloths
HAD I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet,
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet,
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
Wednesday, January 13, 2016
Christianity
Once every hundred years Jesus of Nazareth meets Jesus of the Christian in a garden among the hills of Lebanon. And they talk long; and each time Jesus of Nazareth goes away saying to Jesus of the Christian, "My friend, I fear we shall never, never agree.
Tuesday, January 12, 2016
Commitment
Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation) there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then providence moves too."
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