ganz leise

ganz leise
siebzehn sonetten im petrarkischen stil
für mich und dich

I: tendrils
shyly our hands grow fingers to entwine
within each other in a furious dream
that in perhaps our creeping to the seam
of palmistry like seeds we sow in line
half dread to hope that with a slow resign
the twentyfold relief of touch redeem
a ginger nervousness by which to seem
like chance and maybe if to when consign –
and if this crop of hands holds greater fruit
within our grasp, let it be so that in
some when by time caressèd, we may feel
the coy rotation of some deepening root;
the space between our fingers is too thin
to keep our hands apart. so quietly steal

II: seasons
perhaps if; and by what whose so denies
the everything from which a flower springs
unbid into the consciousness of things,
and if perhaps the maybe asks all whys
to summer breezing warmth with flower lies;
so forth believes that where, who sweetly brings
long patience to a tender missing’s ring
will once surrender when. to catalyse
an autumn’s worth of laughter kiss the sky
whose million eyes in shining brood of peace
are always slyly watching here and there
and slowly learn to if perhaps then sigh
again if place were better there the tease
would winter not the great white everywhere

III: lessons
to learn is how to forget to forget
and take a newer step into a past
that lies instead ahead, not better last,
to breathe as well again in stories yet
untold: if history iterates then let
time take a hold on all and tie them fast
to sweep away the memories of dust
such recollection possibly could unset –
to learn to forget is to remember how
the moments gone long by will come again,
and inescapable the loops of long always
will pierce these minds, and then forever bow
to each and every twinge of cold refrain
remembering to forget a memory’s trace.

IV: regard
Your silent gaze when you are near to me
I think is like the moon, whose dreamy light
is newly fallen rain upon my sight;
but sometimes it is cold, and then I see
something like frost upon the barren tree
whose leaves, deserting butterflies in flight,
are not yet touched upon the ground in spite
of all the time this winter longs to be –
and so within your gaze I shall have drowned:
in sleet or snow I lose myself. Perhaps
when back into your warmth I am received
the moon will shine again upon the ground
of my eyes; till then my endless sinking saps
the dreams I, dreaming, have conceived.

V: icarus
So secretly love steals to us: behold,
how like the spring warming the winter ice
you melted me, and how in turn your eyes
alight with flame and laughter when we fold
our hands together. Love me, then, be bold
and carefree; fly with me into the skies
where each new day is another sure surprise
and watch the seasons pass or earth unfold…
Yet also hold me tight, for always am
I fearing that the sun will melt our wings
and that we fall – if this should come to pass,
hold on to me, in passion to condemn
our hearts into each other’s everything –
now look: so secretly love steals to us.

VI: morphosis
this is a moment that we set apart
from others – what is said is said and so
it is – the memory will stay, although
details will change – within each tiny part
the edges fade, and even if the heart
remains, the crystal of a thought will grow –
thus we embrace – the neverending flow
of time around us freezes – so to start
remembering a past that reaches out
so feebly to our minds, abandon time
and let a rising moon separate our breath –
forget the shifting sanity of doubt –
within the flood of such a tender crime
we seem to touch the kind contour of death

VII: extempore
we are but improvisations of (think
how much is chance: if everything and word
were one, or poetry a flapping bird)
unreasoning, a melancholy sink
in which a charybdis sweeps (how in drink
with secrets to forever stay unheard
ebriation against the night preferred)
all sign of calm within its hissing brink.
if improvising, cue the mind to stop
its thinking; feel the way time passes by
(while only using the heart) and then (again)
to feel the tugs of nervousness on top
of unpredictable emotions. try
to feel my heart. follow its beating pain.

VIII: embers
The candle burns: look how it flickers, light
in jumping all around the room, its steps
like music of an ancient era. Hear the claps
of swaying flame within whose heated flight
lies seeds of shadows shrunken black from white
walls dodging chiaroscuro. A smoky lapse
and wax flows, charting melting maps
descending from the wick’s bright height.
Yet such a light is sacrifice refined:
made to become entirely flame, a tongue
suicidal in its immolation. Burn,
then, safe in knowing that all ends in kind.
The flame flits waving at the smoke so hung
within the air. The shadows hide in turn.

IX: asymptote
this is the height of yearning: how the moon
would sooner rise to catch the sun, or rain
to tend to higher skies, the pure terrain
of which is never near – then ever soon
a coming close frustrating night and noon
for even when such time and space are here
they are too close for time, too far to hear
the springtime showers bathing summer June;
this is the height of yearning, that hummingbirds
can never reach alone to higher fruit,
nor tendrilled melons be as stars – instead
eternity as bound upon the ground has words
to feed the thirst of each slow reaching root
and tie two hearts with some intangible thread.

X: idiolect
the sheer immediate syntax of a speech
such far cry from the vowels serpentine
which flowing through a tongue may sooner glean
a glimpse of the infinite Grammar which
is threaded through all being – so to reach
the higher language stubbornly unseen
in noun adjective particle has been
that even nature never deigns to teach –
if i am poetry you are the pen:
please write me well and lucid like the birds
of Paradise that fly eternally;
perhaps if maybe shall then somehow can
then you and i will become less like words
and more like unrelenting verbs To Be.

XI: tapestry
the watercolour passage spreads its canvas wide
and stretches out upon the summer air –
each cotton cloud the mark of brushes where
the sky is blank and bristles with the stride
of sunlight, and the creatures that abide
by flowing stream or shady grove can spare
the colours of a glorious morning, there
a shepherd with his pastured flock beside…
relentless laxing of a mood to calm,
the stubborn mists of hues commingle, stain,
diffuse into each other as the land
onto the picture bleeds. and so, a balm
to soothe a tired eye, and cheer again
the tired master of a worked and weary hand.

XII: opposition
if heart to heart a battle does in fact
begin, be quickly less to tie unknot
for what is kind in same and name in not
annihilates; whereas like cataphract
and janissary warring, stop, inspect
the motive’s tender strategy where thought
is only less infinite than the spot
of desert where sky and earth both intersect:
what’s same in species may unnamed, disdain,
and pulses so confused may break the threat
of harmony; if so, leave it be cut,
for carelessly can too much heed constrain
a true surrender. take a deep breath. let
the fighting quickly end. if then, so what?

XIII: psyche
her diaries read like clocks slowly unwound:
delirium tugging bit by bit into
the far beyond confusion – what is true
and which is not unravelled to confound;
across the months a sanity unbound
is left to roam among the worlds and through
her body leave its scattered paths anew,
the way an ivy creeps along the ground –
but hear her speak. everything she says
is strong and sure, a sheer reserve behind
the myriad tortures of her thinking. ask
a question, and the books of all her days
will scream her lives throughout her tattered mind,
and yet her face is steady as a mask.

XIV: quiescence
When I’m with you I ask the world to speak
for me, because the speed the winds can blow
is faster than my speech, and what I know
much less than sunlight at its daily peak.
I ask the river and the gurgling creek
to be my flood of thoughts, and I too owe
the earth my thanks to hold your feet below,
and how the stars within your eyes may seek
your sighs. When you’re with me my words run dry,
never enough and far too weak to say
the desperate prayer of my affection. And
regardless of my muted tongue, you try
to make our silence luminous, the way
you put your arm in mine, and take my hand.

XV: elements
should one fine day with what an autumn’s breeze
upon the cooling air can continue,
my dreams would fly upon the winds to you
and thinking, cause the leaves of trees to sneeze
their red and gold, inflaming summer’s peace
with hints of time to come, as if their hue
of fire could chase the sun, causing a new
recall of burning passion – and I miss
you as the river always strains to reach
the ocean’s great wide compass; take me by
the turbulent offence of rapid flow,
and I will never mind if death should teach
solemnity within the grave I lie
if you would be the last great love I know.

XVI: coldsnap
the endless winter of insanity
within the blossoming of icy streams
has sheer command of sleep, and waking dreams
can turn the cries of nascent infancy;
in wintering such season dazedly
contained by white and snow and frosted seam,
run out all naked that the raw chills seem
to have no power over such carelessly
uncautioned daring: learn to be the same
as falling snow, as the icicles that drape
themselves down from the roofs, and only then
can winter lose its grasp upon its name
when all is scattered by a mind whose shape
is nothingness and not a dot more than

XVII: refrain
my songs are yours as such a language is
the only gift within my self to give,
and if the melody is sweet reprieve
then all I wish is nothing left to miss;
my songs are yours: I am too weak to kiss
these words with loving. take them – sooner leave
or helplessness will steal me, and I grieve
for they are yours and sadly only these;
my songs are yours just as I am, and if
with age they should transform my meagre voice
into a dumbness threaded through with wrong,
they will be always yours. will you believe,
and help me sing again? the eternal poise
upon my lips, still flowing with your song?

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