Poetry Being the Thing

The Path

The narrow path crawling,
Shivering underneath the feet,
At the end of which
The Tree of Life has grown, shimmering…

What a big heart it has
This road to Eternity
This path for people, plants and beasts alike,
This path of winged birds…Breathe, o breeze,
Little stutterer,
Entwining and swirling
The love of life
And the harvest of the heart,
From the sea waves,
From the cloud pleats,
From the molten blaze
Of crimson flowers,
Let her light a golden light under my bosom,
And you, blow into the flame, o gentle wind,
So that my hope
Swells eternally
Over my chest…


A Poem

Tell me, if I caught you one day
and kissed the sole of your foot,
wouldn’t you limp a little then,
afraid to crush my kiss?…

(Nichita Stãnescu)

I Am

I am your love,
I am the heat of your love,
Yet lonely…

I am your woman,
You, you are my soul
That I depend on…

Your voice sounded as sudden thunder of love
My soul breathed as an elating lightning of spring…

I breathed your breath deep down my chest
And by your fire I became the poet of the flames…



…the most memorable concern of mankind
is the guts it takes to
face the sunlight again.


Language was invented for one reason, boys – to woo women – and, in that endeavor, laziness will not do. It also won’t do in your essays.

(John Keating, Dead Poet’s Society)

Happy Valentine’s Day, dear readers.  And to my wife.

4 thoughts on “Poetry Being the Thing

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