blizzard rage (a haiku)

burning with cold fire

all the passion of blizzards
distilled in one glance

 

 

~

I was angry last night, because not for the first time some creepy guy followed me out of the train station and nudged me twice on the way. I hate it when strangers follow me and touch me to get my attention despite all of my attempts to signal disinterest. A cold fire in my heart.

And obviously I’m writing a lot of winter themed stuff at the moment. The next one or two will be about something different, I promise!

It starts with a word or two. (What I wrote while I waited for my pizza.)

It starts with a word or two, a string of thoughts, a random image, and an empty day will be filled with new poetry. It’s raw, it’s wild, it can’t be forced to grow. Some days will remain emtpy, some will bear threefold fruits.

I want to be made from light and song, bring out the stars with my words

I want to know what creation was like, watch the colours pour into life

I want to know what the world was like when it still was what it was meant to be

I want to know, I want to taste the immense nebulae and every deep, dark creek and crease and fold of time and space

I want to write about all the beauty there is, was, was forgotten and reborn

It starts with words and ends with speechlessness, images too bright and pure and folded in themselves, colours the mind can see but our eyes cannot. Colours twisting into shapes taking up more dimensions than paper and brush and ink and reed can hold, more connections to be made than could be soldered on one wooden board with the finest diamond-sharp tips of midnight tongues.

I want to hold strings of words in my hands, pearls of syllables, hard and soft and round, rolling, rolling

I want to remember the faces, lines of laughter telling stories passing me on the street, manifold

I try to write and sing and live all at the same time, fingers tripping over blurry lines

It started with two simple lines, and it became the plea of help of a soul drowning in a torrent of images unleashed on dry ground, barren land not able to soak up all the wonders as fast as they are poured out, the golden song of dust being washed away too quickly before a microscope could be found to examine every speck down to its poetic make-up of crystal genes.

Thoughts born from interstellar clouds, delivered into bare and empty hands.

 

 

 ~~~

Writing this happened between writing the first paragraph and waiting for the pizza in my oven to be done. I had jotted down these first few words and lines as a Facebook status and then the idea decided to take a walk on the meta-level.

 

 

copper sunflower

I saw you blooming, defiant little sunflower,
beside cracked sidewalks and words written on brick walls
(and they were words of laughter and riddles about everything right and wrong in this world)

I saw the sun pour copper on your petal hair,
in the rosy warmth of summer afternoons and in the pale, frosty orange of winter dawn
(and it was a copper halo made of birdseed and the blue collected beyond plane windows)

I saw the storm passing by your grassy lane with force,
on days when nourishing spring rain on knowledge-thirsty coasts turned into a tempest driving ships to harbour homes
(and still you wrapped your roots and leaves and sorrow-frailed smile in origami sheets and let the wind push paper sails across storm floods, and mixing ash and honey pollen tears you painted them with heart-shaped freckles)

 

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.