Friday, February 27, 2009

how will you ever know

all night I will burn
all night I will run like a fugitive
all night a barren moon will tear my skin

your touch raised my fever
your words crossed water and air
your unsaid words and your imagined touch crossed water and air

and now you leave
and now you have left me
and now you fall like sand through my dry fingers

what do you know of my world
what do you know of my day and of my night
what can my day know of my night and my night of my day

and now you have left
and all I have is the sound of your words
and the music of your naked feet as they run across my naked floor

how will you ever know of the ache
how can I ever tell you of the ache that you have given me
how can this ache be hidden from the world and from me and from you

and now you have left me
and all I have are the shadows you have left behind
and all I have are the shadows you have left and your beautiful sad smile

but you will never know of the ache
how can I ever tell you of the ache that you have given me
as you left me and you fell like sand and your touch vanished and
my fever my rose

Das Ebenbild aus Despair-Eine Reise ins Licht - Peer Raben

Friday, February 06, 2009


I was tagged by Roxana to "post or write a phrase or words that ring true". This is difficult as my memory is an arch enemy. What rings true now may sound hollow tomorrow especially when it is day time, for day time reflections are different to those at midnight. However, the poem below, called Remorse, is one that I admire and to some extent one that does not usually betray me. I also take this opportunity to play, as Roxana says, this game and tag Atenea, Alok, Marta and the elusively brilliant Decoys to come up with their favourite words, if they will.

I have committed the worst sin of all
That a man can commit. I have not been
Happy. Let the glaciers of oblivion
Drag me and mercilessly let me fall.
My parents bred me and bore me for a higher
Faith in the human game of nights and days;
For earth, for air, for water, and for fire.
I let them down. I wasn't happy. My ways
Have not fulfilled their youthful hope. I gave
My mind to the symmetric stubbornness
Of art, and all its webs of pettiness.
They willed me bravery. I wasn't brave.
It never leaves my side, since I began:
This shadow of having been a brooding man.

Borges, J.L.

Wednesday, February 04, 2009

When we met last

When we met last,
surrounded by your world,
I smelled you, your rich smell.
I was reminded of a perfume that
she would wear, that rich smell
on your neck was like hers too.

When we met last
I saw her face in the shadows
saying nothing, nothing. I remember
only the images of those days, the orchard
trees where we loved, a setting sun,
the drive back to her house.

When we met last
her smell was pain again.
I had thought I had forgotten her
but I remember everything, each line
on her fair palm, her hair a sieve
for the sun, her gestures, that flight, that run.

When we met last
I nearly died, such was the rush
and roar of her smell. And now there is nothing
of her, only your smell.

Sysiphos At Work - Peer Raben