On Eloquence

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.

 

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.

poet’s mind on the run

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? >.<

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.

 

 

silver bells for you

I want to weave silver bells, tiny, tinkling silver bells
into a bouquet of flowers for you to smile at
into strands of leather for you to wear
into rainy days for you to dance to
into my words and stories for you to dream of
I want to weave my silver bells into everything for you.

 

~

Inspired by a picture on a friends blog, my soft spot for tiny silver bells, and song lyrics about the rain playing tambourine I made up for a story.

Favourite Friday: Words and Colours

Sometimes I have no clue what to write about. So I got the idea to do something weekly like many other bloggers do. It will be about things I cherish and enjoy. Favourite things. Simple things. And I invite all of you to comment a lot and tell me what about your favourites in the weekly category/categories!

Let’s start with words and colours!

Favourite (English) words: serendipity, lush, and cerulean (favourite words in other languages are another issue … for Swahili I’m considering shaghala-baghala “chaos”, mjinga “uneducated idiot” (yep, I use this a lot …), kabisa “completely”, and matatizo “troubles”; in French maybe papillon “butterfly”, and in German it would be some funny, randomly made up composite word … )

Favourite colours: current favourite is cerulean blue (which inspired me to start this stuff), and indigo, but what really is my favourite colour keeps changing depending on season and mood. Mostly natural, not too bright ones. And I like colours with pretty names, obviously :)