I used to believe I was eloquent
but only while the words
were inside my head, tumbling about,
grazing the skies of my inner world.
Coming out they stumbled into a strange place,
not knowing how to tread and thread;
folding into strange shapes and knots
not suitable for linearity.
Written on a surface they line up well enough
arranged in neat stacks and rows,
escaping the confining dimension of time
by flattening out all the parallel pockets of space-time.
My hands are more eloquent,
able to add the dimension of shapes and colours,
speaking in crystal shards and strange crosshatched riddles,
and pouring my strange mental vision into shimmering fields of paint.
The connection between thought and soul and fingertips
– a strange one, multilayered, of nondimensional facets –
will whisper in rainy nights
of electric storms and forest wanderers.
My world is not your world
But I want you to meet me
In fields where I can breathe
On mountains where I am free
My paths are not your vision
But won’t you walk with me for just one day
Below trees whispering of old dreams
On silent dust, through drumming rain
My feet cross lands you’ll never know
But just once, follow the threads I lay
Across stones marking secret smiles
Back to hazy borderlands
Meet me there, in places you haven’t learned to realize
Two levels down, up the broken stairs, brush off the faded varnish
Unsee the walls, slip through the cracks, meet me some day.
Wide awake behind closed eyelids, the passion of rapidly firing neurons, flashes of thunderstorm-like consciousness, falling backwards into habits of uneasy dreams at the cutting edge of spiralling hummingbird thoughts and cherry blossoms settling down like moths at sunrise, the sweltering heat of a body-warmed woolen cocoon less comforting than the cold morning air creeping between layers of blankets and skin tingling with electricity.
Sparks of knowledge singing along the wires of nerves and peeling tree bark away until the raw bone-marrow becomes one with sleepy feet retracing icy lines of fleeting sun light, wandering low over the mind’s horizon – stillness of birds on telegraph wires between rooftops, whirring blue sparks recreating whole galaxies at the speed of light multiplied by pi and unfolding into one dimension for every constant and factor ever thought of.
Point of origin, branching out in the shape of a platypus; bloom and sun and winter all at once curling up in twisted ropes of chimney smoke, sky-bound paper ships attracted by singularities, a tidal wave of black holes at the bottom of a mind’s deep ocean, sea-turtle green and lagoon blue, the colours of the spectrum defining speed and amplitude, longitude being as uncertain as flight patterns of mosquitos and latitude as fleeting as bookpages turned, absentmindedly over a long cold cup of coffee.
a million thoughts rushing in
how to breathe out words?
Some days my brain is crawling with thoughts like ant rush-hour, and it can be such a chaos inside my little cosmos that I can’t form words or letters sometimes. I try to speak and mix up words, I try to write and all I manage are scrawly letters, half of them missing so I have to guess the words myself when rereading them later.
touching red harp-strings
my curious mind’s blue notes
half of my prism heart
blankly staring mind
days of empty white paper
a blanket of snow
I should call this one ‘my mind went blank because I’m so tired’. Sifting through files upon files in search of verbs is tiring, but I have to go back to it tomorrow. The show must go on.
And I decided to create a separate page for all the random haikus I coming to my tired mind late at night during the months of writing my master’s thesis. If you are interested in reading an ever growing list of short tree-liners, just hover your mouse pointer over the “Poetry&Prose” tab or click here. Some less artistic haikus which I don’t want to post as blog entries will find a home there as well.
Good night :)
Maybe a poet’s mind has to be on the run most of the time in order to create and cover enough ground for all those thoughts.
So keep writing, keep writing, and never stop.
When the paper runs out, write on snow and concrete and whale backs.
Write on lanes and avenues,
keep scrawling and thinking and keep the words coming,
fill city voids with cursive and cover scycraper walls in the boldest letters you can muster.
When the words run out, keep running.
A poet’s mind on the run will cover miles of desertlands,
but at the end of the day there’s a chance to rest on tree stumps beneath clouds of words,
and the words they will keep falling, falling in place
in a poet’s mind on the run.
Dear brain, you are very annoying. Please shut up for a moment. I’m not interested in purple jellyfish and their connection to street lamps. Arrgh. Anyone wants to trade brains with me? >.<
He’s standing there, hands interlaced at the back of his head,
seemingly listening to a tune carried by the wind from faraway places
(and he’s wearing their patterns to keep himself warm in the wind)
Wisely smiling at the antics of youth,
laughing and fighting both coming from the heart
(and he’s as relaxed as a warrior can be)
In the blink of an eye his stance will change, complete control of mind and body,
with every fibre and muscle ready to face the world
(and he does so with thoughtful tranquility)