even he of the seldom sun
must break the pattern of tiger
to map inwardly the climb towards
the forgotten bottom of stars
if i singular last of beginnings
shall speak without speech
embrace without arms challenge
the nectar in the brain
marked with conspiracy there
atoms there universes perform in the habit
of my construct spectrum tiger-free
finally silhouette pirouetting pain
Through maps of thirst and seas,
Traversing the labyrinth of absence,
Your comely sight finally greets me,
Welcoming the distance warrior
From his now distant wars
Into your forbidden shore.
What do I make of life now,
But thirst in search of its music,
And death, but eyes breaking into sight.
It is love to attempt to measure
The immeasurable with mystery of tears.
So, whoever says love is faith is mistaken,
For love is deed, as hate is deed.
These emotions do not confine themselves
In their shells, they go out into the sea,
Travel the great distances
Till they find their true meanings
In the stillness of eyes,
And how great is the Deed
In such stillness!
But, how do you distinguish
Love from hate?
Love betrays death,
While hate, a traitor to its birth.
Feel the untouchable touch,
The speechful deed!
Do hate, the holy terror
Of tongueful spear.
I come to you, my Muse,
In rushing stillness,
Into your scheme I go,
Your uniting chasm,
Into your dividing peace.
The unharmed wound bathes
In its shadow, washing the absence
Away with darkest light,
Till the tip of tears
Wounds the eyes
With chords of sight.
Your lover is coming,
Riding the waves of songs,
While angels dive into the second death
Of a first true love.
Those eyes tell with their silence,
Your grace the prayer of sin,
Such melodious limbs confess
The virtue of distances.
i imagined these words even before I wrote them
that for instance there would be two lines for each stanza
that i would now be reading on the second stanza
as if i saw the poem even before it happened
when it happened after the children played and signified over the
world of grown-ups
when it happened after voices burst in surreal and beautiful display
words seen in the mind’s eye happening
even before they happened to deepen in the skin of the moment
that music vibrated even before it is heard
words were said before the tongue even tastes their shapes
even before the pen catches the symbols with which they should be
written
in the imagined how they are real and in the writing how they are real
and in the reciting how they are real forming a moment that is here
but also so much there before in the imagined on that stage of creation
events happen even before they happen as imagined by the universal mind
and events imagined the universal mind as well even before they occur
and the day is never too late as the night is never too late
music is shared because it is good words are shared because they are good
for the goodness comes from before even previous to touching the heart
for the heart was there before as it is very here now
in the night of play and music with the magic of the moment
almost always coming from the imagined as if they never happened before
for the beauty of the forming
for the beauty of the shaping
there would be two lines in every stanza as imagined
and the voice ripe with prophecy
and the writing as well as the tasting of the words
in the hour that is very here and was very there before
in the drama of presences that can be traced soon after
every time someone attempts to open the moment’s door
the wind brings her to me,
the stir of weather, the play of water.
touch sails along secret routes,
till voice comes washing the sand.
water spills into wings.
I.
it is in distance i come
very close to her,
the guilt more real
and unforgiving —
a moment quivering
with so much nearness.
her breath hot on my face,
scent caressing my lips,
the magic of the reach
between us haunts this hour
when sins are too holy
for their meanings,
too pure for the dark.
she is a miracle, a vocabulary
born of the wind.
II.
it’s already night,
the tired body wanting
to feel the dreams on the bed,
the arms longing to embrace
the language of pillows.
but, here i am with pen in one hand
and paper in the other
with thoughts of the muse
flowing from the liquid wind.
she was there beside me,
skin to skin, separated only
by the games of names.
our silence was melody
still playing, searching
for the lyrics.
but, i can only fill
the page with distances
toward the next music,
toward a landmark planted
with another song.
III.
have you seen her? she was here a while ago, connecting the telling universe
to the page, some love electric, the planets, suns and stars
revolving, gliding in a quickened sleep into the dream on paper.
the tongued storm with voice of all eyes, with the rhythm of entire
petal force empirely spinning in one gentle touch. and touch
of hair is flowing ocean to the depths of its engulfing mystery, the waves
connecting shores, glowing darkly with the moon on her flowering
wingertips, dancing at the heart of the hurricane; while the unicorn
swiftly to the target of its rare eyes — all blooming
universes a giant rose opening its palms to the God
of the atom and to the Lord of the shading suns. there
into the sex of the night the cities wood the gentle kiss.
love of all love is a woman mystery, who accompanies
one sip of coffee with her Genesis smile, simply the heart
is pure to love, too pure to sin, too, such pureness
here touching the face, till summer storm wipes
tears from the skies. have i told you before there is so much
to tell in the wide-eyed loneliness of her arrival?
i shall meet her, oh i shall meet her and whistle
a happy tune, lovely melody of our oneness. why oh why
you should ask. i shall tell you about the lingering
scent, the traces of her perfume on my skin, and my eyes —
there she is, the dream imprinted in my eyes, oh and to touch
her is like strumming the bent night for melodious wind. and you
say I’m clever, clever for loving her, loving her.
have you not seen her? what of miracle and song when
she walks, the road palms of winged angels,
deeply thirsting as every fleeting step performs heavenly music.
i sing about her. my soul sings about her.
IV.
she feels good about herself.
she’s all natural, all beautiful inside-out.
her smile plucks stars from orbit.
like a whisper, her eyes hourless but momentful
in her free-verse walk.
there’s her heart, ageless youth,
words gently, easy-speak in her eyes,
divine is her voice
kind is her skin to touch.
thoughts caressing in their free time,
surfing on the surge of life,
playing in the balance
when truth edges to wound
but fails because it simply
cannot be so true.
in her free-verse walk,
like a whisper, her eyes hourless but momentful.
her smile plucks stars from orbit.
she’s all natural, all beautiful inside-out,
she feels good about herself.
Copyright (C) 2008, Edwin M. Cordevilla