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  Jul 2014 Digital Asylum
irinia
there’s still some music hidden
in the burst of noon
I can feel it in my lips
the Man you are
you ****** time
when you forget to blink

make me your Woman
embodied certainty
doorstep within
pillow for dreams
uninterrupted

I’ll be your road back
into childhood laughter
fill me with poetry, commonplace,
raw matter-of-fact
I’ll wear the day for you
fix little surprise
in the cup of tea
let you play true love
with my heels, dormant

twist the mirror inwards:
I’m yours.
you stranger,
behold thy Woman
  Jul 2014 Digital Asylum
irinia
-after **

Everything great on earth
begins as something small.

Lao Tzu

I

Older than China
I am the memory of trees;
sip the earth from me.

I remember mist,
sunlight climbing the steep hills
leaf by silent leaf.

When I was a seed
I was drawn to a raindrop:
we made a strange brew.

Take me in silence;
I am all of the autumn,
cup me in your hands.

Warm in your fingers;
I am moments of quiet in
long conversations.

More than a prayer
on the road with the pilgrims,
by windows in rain.

II

And if you see yourself here,
hand lifting the cup,
imagine these are your leaves:

no curse this winter, then spring,
three months of sadness,
you'll see its shadows haunting.

The house will feel empty, but
then there is passion,
cups left on the floor. Sunlight.


Tony Curtis, Three Songs of Home, The Dedalus Press, Dublin, 1998

*the poem was posted with author's permission
Tony Curtis (b. 1955) is an Irish poet. "Three Songs of Home" is a collection of poems inspired by his voyage into the Himalayas.
  Jul 2014 Digital Asylum
irinia
ask your blood
your limbs, your breathing feet
what Poetry is -
a phylogenetic anomaly
in light’s discontinuity

or just…
the strange yearning of hematopoiesis

ask the silence in your lungs
the bursting DNA, reinterpreted
how it allures memory inside your bones
how it treads conventions of sleep
with the weight of a sigh

if you ask me
what Poetry is
I’d say: breath calligraphy
a winged dream of depth
on enchanted retina
the bitter-sweet art of airy harmony

ask your hands
what Poetry is
perhaps they’ll take a moment
to bloom
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