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Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 10/1/2019

The most beautiful is the one who at the candle top
lives alone and this poem is about him:

tiny flame - a metaphor for life.

Przemyslaw Musialowski 8/21/2008
Only poems that I've ever tried to write myself come from a time when I was 22 or 23 years old and there are only few of them. Enjoy!
Don't forget your promise to the stars.
Don't let all the misery, tear you apart.
Don't let your heart blow away in the wind.
Don't let my memory go out like a spark.

But if you do tonight.
I'll just close my eyes.
So I don't have to see,
when everything I love
Is set free.
Adam Oct 4
There is a gap wide enough,

Between what we feel, and what we show,

That a jungle lives between;

Neither hers nor mine, but somewhere new.

This country's a paradise, but

This country's a maze, where my sorrows

Stalk my joys through dark forests

Woven thickly through my reveries,

As hungry creatures - by my hand sent,

For the Gods of my forest

Covet no beauty but chaos.

This place has no maps,

Because this place is me;

And I am the blind cartographer

August 2019
There's a lot I could say to explain this. But I won't.
“eppur si muove”, said galilei.
and it shall continue. with or without you.
“and yet it moves”
(the earth around the sun)
It seems to be all fun and games
for when I reminisce on the day
the tame looks and words are amplified
pumping out a beat much louder than my body should be able to hear
yet I sway to the rhythm
drawn to the pulsating
intoxicating
reverence of the music
and as you pull me in for a kiss
captured for a moment by the visual farce that lies within your glasses
I see my face reflected back at me
I can't help but think that maybe
I don't love you
instead
just enjoying a fresh perspective on loving myself.
I'm as terrified as I am exited.
The silence before the storm
Has become the silence after a shower
When my ears still echo the thundering droplets
Competing with the hollow throbs of my own heart
In that moment before I slip under the covers
And discover that I do not enjoy the quiet
Or the back that remains etched in my memory
Perpetually turned away from me
Shapes shift in the bank that is my mind
Waves that slowly alter the shoreline
But remain ever so far away
With every passing breath
I drift further out to sea
Kissing goodbye to the idea of dry land
Which draws such tantalising 'scapes in the distance
Like the planes of a sculpted back
Broad
But built on sand
Each one falls through my fingertips when I reach for it
Their ears are full of the ocean
Vast and endless and deaf
Over the roar of the currents
I cannot be sure
that they will turn to me.
Just some reflections from my past and the seemingly endless nights of partners sleeping as far away from me as is possible.
Pagan Paul Sep 24
.
Do you remember the time
that we built a boat to sail?
I taught you to use tools,
chisels, mallet, plane, knives.
Moving your wrists, touching hands,
guiding your fingers to feel.
We joked and laughed together
as we gouged out the trunk.
We were going to make a canoe
but you wanted a sail boat,
so we worked on the shape
carving the bow to a point.
You taught me how to sew
and I had lots the scars,
little white dots on my fingers,
but we stitched that cloth together.
And when we had made our sail boat
we looked around for the water.
But found we were stood in a desert.
Do you remember the time
that we built a boat to sail?
Do you remember?
Do you?



© Pagan Paul (19/09/19)
.
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