We were in a crowded place.
No, we were on a boat
hearing the slap of water.
No, we were in the jungle
on a B-movie set.
There is no we
in the archive.
There is only I
with the husk
of the world
of the
sunrise, sunset, no pillow and stone,
no moving stars of earthly time,
just saltaway hope and who knows what
lavender rose and jacaranda
wine too bitter for the glass.
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high above the pueblo we walk
awaiting the late night rain
scrub oak and cactus sprawl
three musicians appear
on a bench on a tiny plaza
we dance, we part, we hear
a door closing a market stall
while far far below
in the halo mist of the pueblo
a figure stops to light
a lantern that flashes red and gold
and brings us back to touch
one more time
as the first
drops fall
(alternate title: As the first drops fall)
Any votes for original (“The bench and the lanterns”) vs. alternate (“As the first drops fall”) title?
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fullness of heart
at first sight
sweet
. calm
. jagged
. flowing
velvety as wine cream
. sweet
. calm
. restless
the simplest of pleasures
a knit of human connection
a banquet of fruit and chocolate
deep and dark and bittersweet
and floating in the room
the candle now still
a time to depart
ex machina
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Shiva’s giant trident
at Pasupatinath still wet,
a monkey, with child clinging
fast and dry to the belly,
eyes the pilgrim’s steps,
starts, reconsiders, decides
quickly for which tree
she is to run.
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Shortlisted for the Faulkner-Wisdom Poetry Prize
I still walk to that lake, the surface now still,
absence of geometry, ache of tranquility,
a voice but a whisper
soothing, sad, a silver
thorn in the side of love.
What love creates, need destroys.
We put flowers on the table
at the changing of the season.
Then the rains came. We watched
through the kitchen window.
You turned out the lamp.
“I love you more than I need you,” I said.
“Now I know what that means.”
But need, the ache, the silver thorn,
will have its bloody day.
Time passes. Seasons change.
When I walk to the lake I stir the surface,
the glitter of sun, a dangerous swell,
my hand beginning to move
into place a geometry
of memories.
Poem by Gary Gautier
Painting by Cheryl Gautier
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the earth stopped turning
and we all went flying
off toward the stars
sparkling, burning, dying,
our stupid awe holding
only to the beauty
hazy memories, moss
and moon, drifting
floating petals
someone on the tiny plaza
just outside my window
flying still toward the stars
faster, faster, stupid awe
holding tight to savage
light and bitter ash
eyes aflame, dreams
and memories void of pain
sparkling, burning, dying, laughing
stupidly good, colder now, yet
faster, faster, to the close
faster to the close
we went
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From Berlin, 05/01/22
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From the Black Forest, Germany, 4/11/22
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From Chamonix/Mont Blanc, 4/6/22
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shakemyheadhollow 