Lark of Concrete Fields (Poetry Portrait)

He danced in a field of wild flowers,
took their memory across the sea
– long weeks away from home
(but the game went with him, even when he played on foreign shores)

There’s golden sunshine and the colour of rain-wet straw,
the lark in the meadow sings out to him,
and the song of a travelling bard
(and the songs play inside him, beckoning to follow)

A spring in his step and sparkling laughter in his eyes,
he dances for himself and fights for a better world,
miles to go and people to meet
(be it on green grass or grey pavement, both are his playground)

Stars and Ground

Eloquent hands, reaching for the stars
thoughts dancing to a tune only he can hear,
a rhythm out of time
(but all his movements are congruent in themselves, speaking articulately of his world)

Kind soul, keeping in touch with the ground
steady steps and gleeful jumps,
hand and feet grazing the solid floor
(but it’s only a short moment of reassuring contact before he flies again)

Cheerful smile, easy to like and trust,
air of playfulness and solid earnestness running together,
all covered by deliberateness, a layer of glassy water
(but then again, sometimes there are ripples on the smooth, calm surface)



Yes, you guessed right, it’s another poetry portrait. I wrote it a few weeks ago, but posted it only on DeviantArt because I wasn’t happy with it. A few days ago I got an idea for changing a few words, so here is the version I feel is okay to share.

It’s the second attempt to rework an older poetry portrait, to make it more like the other ones in this set. Shorter lines, simpler pictures. I’m still not content, because some images from the original are missing.


tiger and bowstring

He tenses his muscles and turns his body into a longbow,
a bowstring woven of music and playful prancing
– then instead of an arrow a tiger flies forth
(and the tiger is carved from the lithe heartwood still beating one-TWO-three-pause)

He is a tiger sleeping in a library,
in semi-sleeptalk dutifully teaching little birds to hunt for words,
while longing for the moment to escape the grey walls with the jungle-green bow he keeps hidden under his chair
(and only at night he hunts words and songs for his own enjoyment, one-TWO-three-pounce)

He builds himself a seaside castle from tiger-striped driftwood,
barefoot he fights emerald waves and throws sand dollar shaped pebbles into tidal pool wishing wells,
in hazy summer-lands alive with the whirring energy of a bowstring sending arrows flying into battle
(and in the shade of a bottle gourd planting he turns salt-water soaked book pages, one-TWO-three-breathe)

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)


cinnamon coffee

Hair black as coffee and it unfurls in caffeine-driven curls,
while from obsidian eyes cinnamon sparkles down her cheeks to meet shades of desert rose
(and they match the energy of her mind and the temperament of a day of gale-force warning)

Black thunder clouds of cynicism and sarcasm alternating with iridescent soap-bubble lightness of deep southern-blue skies,
from time to time suddenly expelling a shooting star of childish-sweet glee, an expression of delight at the sight of something big-eyedly cute
(and though these seem mismatched and incoherent they all are sugar-fuelled)

Black tea in a white mug and donut-ringed fingers clicking away the hours,
steaming paper clouds exhaled on cold cashmere scarf days and bleeding ink from sandy feet wandering deserts of malls
(and she works hard to match herself to her belief in the possibility of having it all)


Sorry for the weird, random line breaks. I haven’t found a way to decrease the font size and making the text area of the layout wider yet without paying for an upgrade to tinker with the CSS; for now I solved it by using copy-paste from my normal text editor with a slightly smaller font size.

fierce as a bear

Booming voice and roaring laughter,
there’s a bear sleeping in the cave beneath his lungs
(and sometimes it wakes up and joins in the song)

Head held high and arms spread wide to embrace the world,
there’s a fierce spark in the back of his eyes
(and sometimes it breaks through the gentle surface)

Patient to teach and encourage,
there’s a genuine enthusiasm and a huge love of life in his words, in his face and hands and feet
(and it’s so wild it might be a little scary at times)

the graceful dancer (purple flowers and green moss)

She’s the graceful dancer, smiling with her eyes,
and always, always moving in a beautiful way.
There seem to be bells around her ankles and stars at her fingertips
(but it’s just bangles and the wind in her hair as she cartwheels, and she brings the water flowing in wide rivers from Africa)

Dark purple flowers seem to be growing on her path,
and lush green moss on sturdy trees lining her way.
There are glossy beetles and singing cicadas following her steps
(maybe it’s just colourful fabrics and musical laughter, and she’s the calm before the storm in tall blades of grass on the riverbank)

In her hands and eyes blackberries might be growing,
ripe from summer sun and providing joy to children dancing in the autumn rain,
she’s rich fresh bread and the bittersweet fragrance of dark chocolate
(or perhaps it’s just giving her love to the hope of a better world, and she’s the woolen blanket to wintery souls)



Another poetry portrait, I hope you enjoy it.

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

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.

not that different

You used to seem so far away, so grown up and advanced, even-tempered and moving with easy grace, happy and calm and always helpful, never harsh;

But since I’ve come to know you I see the flaws as well, I’ve learned to see past the slow, deliberate movements and the thoughtful confidence they convey at first and second glance;

And while I move much quicker, hastier, masking clumsiness by fast pace and insecurity not always with a smile but sometimes with aggression, I love the beauty of serenity, long for balance, and care deeply about others, though maybe just a small number of persons right now, but about them with all the more fierce loyalty.

I see the bottom line, the symmetry of who we are

Standing out of a crowd, by both appearance and air

Playful, earnest, stern,

A singularity.

I guess after all we’re not that different, but you’re a better person.



It’s been a long time since I last wrote poetry portraits, and this one is different from my style back then. I might try to go back to what I used to do and write about those who are important to me now in my old ways.