the smell of winter (a haiku)

fog and wood-fire
cold air full of promises
the smell of winter

~

My haiku for today. So much fog. It made the train ride across the arms of the river more interesting; I was hardly able to see any water, but the little banks of land with golden trees looked beautiful and mythical when appearing out of the fog, just to fade again. The scent of burning wood from some chimneys, the sharp cold in the morning just above zero degrees … it makes me feel alive.

brown and white and prussian blue (fast pace in slow motion)

If someone asked me about your colours I’d answer that your surface, the part of your soul you show, is warm dry brown and cotton white and all the shades between,
but beneath these autumn fire
and Prussian blue of evening skies turning soft summer nights to early winter
(I know because these are the only colours I can paint you in, even though I can’t truly see beyond the earth and the cotton)

Akin to a dry leaf whirling in late autumn breezes
fast pace in slow motion
quick and precise but never rash, never hasty, always seeming to move slower and steadier than reality,
not out of time but somehow inhabiting a different stream of time, a sphere of gentle tides washing to your shores and from your heart
(I believe there is clear water running around you, even though I can’t see the rivulets)

Peaceful, serene, like a pebble smoothed in cold, fresh streams, cool and solid to the touch,
and yet encapsulated in it all the joy of sunshine,
raw like distilled rays of ancient star-fire and oriental amber on smouldering coals, carefully tamed and kept in your pocket, safely tucked away,
but still it radiates from your fingertips
(I think everybody feels it in the touch of your hand, because in the beginning the friendly energy felt overpowering like sitting open-eyed in front of a fireside as a child)

~~~

 

If you want to see this without random line breaks, please follow the link to my DeviantArt page http://kayanya.deviantart.com/art/fast-pace-in-slow-motion-487325203.

As I promised I tried to get closer to my old style with this poetry portrait. At least one or two will follow soon, but I have scribbled notes for three and plan to do four. Some will be written as if directed to the person, others in 3rd person narration.

like coming home

The scent of leather bound books, covered in dust and the wisdom of ages – crisp paper full of words and perfumed in earthy shades by the soil of foreign lands, then again blank sheets waiting to be filled with lines and swirls traced in the sharp, black scent of ink

– and it smells like coming home.

The sound of wind chimes, the tinkling of stringed seashells in the open window, from the house next door the crackling of a small fire and a tea pot singing

– and it sounds like coming home.

Beyond windows wide open vast landscapes, a mighty desert, sheltering green hills, billowing curtains, and at night the Milky Way so clear in the sky above one might believe our planet had rings like Saturn, Jupiter and all those giants – dreams of greatness, feeling humbled by sand and stars and ocean waves

– and it feels like coming home.

 

~

Some pictures my mind painted. It all started with the phrase “and it feels like coming come”, which was evoked by a decision I made today. I’ll return to the branch of linguistics I have drifted away from and write my master’s thesis on a topic which will be part of a bigger upcoming project.

I don’t know what will happen afterwards, but I’m not so sure anymore I’ll be ready to leave my academic home and move on towards more technical work next year. I might be here to stay for another couple of years, and yet not to stay. Life is crazy right now, but then again, when has my life been normal the last time? I can’t remember. Always something going on, either trouble or throwing myself into unnecessary work on term papers more complicated than required because I can’t do things the simple way  and then feeling depressed because I can’t see the end of said work. Only one more term paper to finish before being free to put all my time into bigger research.

We have weird weather right now, not really warm but somehow sweltering, hot and cold at once. My window is opened as wide as possible because I felt like I was melting and suffocating, but at the same time I’m snuggled into a blanket. I want to live with open windows and vast landscapes outside, always.

 

 

you can’t bottle me

When you come close to me, don’t expect me to smell of the lily and the rose, the sweet sugary fragrances of multi-layered artificial compositions. This isn’t me. When you see me you should recognize how my scent couldn’t have been born in a test tube, a laboratory, how it can’t be bottled in diamond-faceted flacons and tied up with a pale pink ribbon.

I want my scent to remind you of sitting next to a camp fire under a starry sky, smoke curling up to the milky way, and maybe a full moon rising up over a vast, mysterious landscape.

I want my embrace to carry you to mossy woods, deep and green with warm sun on rain-drenched logs, a smell of comfort, of safety and freedom.

I want to make you feel at home in fields of cornflowers growing on heavy, dusty soil, with a whiff of herbs and spices carried over by  the breeze; maybe from the Provence, maybe from a place far away full of cedar wood and pines.

I want you to take a walk by my side, inhaling the faint aroma of old leather, of hay on meadows in late summer, and of trees turning into crisp red and golden flames on the hills with the onset of Indian summer, all being threatened to be swept away by the veil of mist rising up.

I want you to stand next to me and inhale the powerful perfume of thunderstorms making rain fall in big, lazy drops on sun-hot pavement, bringing dreams of old days and new adventures, mixing ashes and the ocean in one single breath.

I want you to think of evening sun turning the world golden, making you forget the time, the place, the season, and when you look up I want to make you wonder what huge white clouds taste like.

This is me. You can’t bottle me, and neither will you ever be able to capture all of me at the same time.

 

 

 

Favourite Friday: Scene from “The Hobbit”

“Far over the Misty Mountains cold …”

This song scene gave me goosebumps, in a good way. There are some other really nice scenes in the movie, but this one is on my mind most often. I wish my voice was this deep and resonating when I sing the song. The atmosphere which is set by the combination of the song and the pictures shown (I totally adore how they switch to the camera on the outside of the cottage and show the spark-blowing chimney against the night sky, by the way) is just the right mixture of a calm, warm moment, melancholy, and a sense of oncoming adventure. It was also the moment when the dwarves became less annoying in my eyes. Warm fuzzy feelings for everyone!