I miss winter (a narrative poem I wrote last week)

I used to like the cold
then I turned to warmth, to summer heat, to storms and thunder on sweltering days, to soft autumn glory
but now I remember how open fields of snow used to give me space to breathe, a canvas for clear thoughts
and I recall how my lungs opened, exhaling dust and taking in the cold expanse of mountain ranges for the first time
I miss real winter

last night I discovered
that my unlikely muse is not only autumn at the turning point to clear winter,
with warm forest-wood eyes and at the same time piercing snowflakes
but the calm and steady touchstone of warmth on these cold days as well,
a blanket of friendly thoughts keeping the wind outside a Nordic wood cabin full of white pillows
so yes, I miss winter now

snow paper (a haiku)

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 :)

winter in my blood (a haiku)

  hands as cold as ice
despite all the hot water
winter in my blood …

~

Somehow a semi-subconscious part of my mind decided the 5-7-5 syllable structure of haikus would be an appropriate way of chunking information and ideas for a quick output between whatever things I do all day. So I’ll write some more short poetry every now and then, I guess.

seasons of writing

red pages slipping from between my fingers
words found and, unspoken, forgotten.
my unlikely muse went to sleep
as did the ghosts of old days.
so many leaves to turn
from golden red to yellow on the trees
autumn came
with force
winter will trample snow from its boots
shivering mitten-clad hands will take off the woolen knitted word hat
exhaling letters written on crisp violet pages by the fireplace.
cold roads, white walls
a room of square folios in pale spring green

delivered to my wooden heart.

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.