"mistral" poems
There's this air in South France
So alive you can almost touch it
Soft enough, it blows away the candles
Numbered seats, train wagons, I wish I had taken with you
Warm hands on my frozen nose
a memory in red burning
Your arms, your hair, my cheeks
There's this air they call it Mistral
So loud and you can almost hold it
Light enough, it carries the grains of sand
Kaleidoscope films, sad endings, I wish you'd wipes away my tears
A stolen kiss in a forgotten dream
A wheel in Marseille, spinning
My scarf, my gloves, your lips
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 2:07 PM UTC
09/09/10 13.26
Just eaten the last of your figs x
End
There is just so much to know about the fig.
Andre Gidé, D.H.Lawrence,
Gabriela Mistral
Poets all
Have tried
To decode
Its secret enclosed form.
*Since nothing escapes
the smell becomes succulence and taste.
A blossom without beauty, yet a fruit of delights...*
A year ago
When I brought autumn to your table
I tried to explain
The fig’s ****** nature . . .
and failed.
I was too shy
And mumbled something about
Its gynaecological aspect.
Now I know you better
And your hand has cupped
My testicles
Can you not
Appreciate the similarity?
The size and shape is
. . . similar
It seems male
This secretive fruit
But when you come to know it better,
You’ll agree with Catullus,
It is female.
Oh fig, fruit of female mystery where everything happens invisible flowering and fertilization,and fruiting in the inwardsness of your you that eye will never see till its finished and you’re over-ripe and you burst to give up your ghost.
Yesterday
(After we had eaten figs
From the blue bowl
Bathing in the golden light
Of your September garden)
I felt that ripe and secret cleft
Open to my ***** touch
And kiss and kiss
Kiss and kiss
Touch me: it is softness of good satin, and when you open me, what an unexpected rose! Poets have not known the colour of night, nor the figs of Palestine. We are both the most ancient blue, a passionate blue, richly concentrating itself because of its ardor. I spill my pressed flowers into your hand. I create a deaf meadow for your pleasure. I shower you with the meadow's bouquet until covering your feet.
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 2:34 AM UTC
the wind is drunk on its liquor
a subtle slurring
lilies stir on the lilt of its voice
as harsh a requitement
again, I find no respite
as lithe as the life
in those ever-rearing gold rows of wheat
mistral born, on the rise
like prying eyes
I am thrown
into some tumult,
where some enemy rages on
shakes his staff against the cold
where the lighter chaff is tossed
toward the salt that laps the sand
on the sweet breath of its benthos
I am withering
but the wind blows on
whiles along –
drones its tepid mourning song
springs the dew
from its calloused palms
I am thrown
as sure of war
as trees will shed and flourish
and shed and flourish
in seasons to and fro'
freshly disowned
by the earth and its shoulder
a carapace of autumn's
exhumed again
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 5:55 AM UTC
undecipherable loss
• [it's steeper near the roses]
attenuation
• [the mystery in the trees
and the mistral sound of your breathing]
dreams of perfection: floral dress summer
• [the apnea and the scream]
a touch of labyrinth to this world
• [in the fair and harmless light]
imagine somewhere close by
• [imagine him waving as you say goodbye]
Dec 7, 2022
Dec 7, 2022 at 2:28 PM UTC
I have in me a bit of Tuscan sun
The wildness of mistral
The calmness of a Cezanne village
I often walk around the countryside of Pissaro
And see the colors, still abundant, undefeated
I stroll around the lilies and the harbor of France where Manet painted being thrown out of his house, not able to pay the rent
I dance with the beautiful girls in high society Parisian parties of whom from Zola to Maugham spoke about
I learn art in silence, in the bright orange color of the day drawing the French young girl
Whose face is like Madonna
Her innocence, her laughter, her flawless body
Excite me, breaks me, creates me
I walk with clean head and red wine in the streets of Montmartre
Searching the gone and dusted studio of Renoir, Picasso, Monet
I stand exactly there where there is nothing old except the moon
And the Sacre Couer
In the morning I take the first train to Auvers Sur Oise
And walk into the cemetery
Where lie in the gorgeous French sun
Vincent and Theo Van Gogh
I utter to them, "Can dream ever be false?"
It is when I heard the footsteps
I turned
The girl in the yellow dress stands at the gate of the cemetery
Whom I draw every day but never captured her beauty
The French girl
We both stand there as it is
As if
framed
paused
Frozen
We, the Impressionists!
Aug 8, 2020
Aug 8, 2020 at 8:45 AM UTC
Having just climbed
through ages
up what seemed an endless flight
of narrow winding gothic spiral stairs
I step out
right into the wind's brute force
instinctively
my arms grasp for a hold
fearful lest I blend suddenly
with the white horses
and the fields of the Camargue
far down below
Wedged safely
in a nook of stone
a hefty tourist
leans out wide between the walls
toward the setting sun
her summer skirt is blown waisthigh
revealing
unexpectedly delicate lace
above sturdy thighs
her body opens
to the strong soft touch
of the Mistral
A little later
she walks past me
clothes gathered
level gaze calm
and self-assured
and leaves me wondering
whether the mighty abbot
on his solitary tower
and his exclusive brotherhood of men
had ever understood
the wind that blew
and still blows
through two feet of stone
like they were silk
and thrills a woman
to her bone
* * *
© Walter W. Hoelbling
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 4:20 PM UTC
Rumbles of
Thunder
Light the candles of my mind
safely shielded from the
Winds
of conflagration
Fire has never been my friend
There are
Ashes
on my forehead
from the rubble at my feet
Mainsails billow in my consciousness
as a crimson mistral sets my boat
Out to sea
to search for the
Giant Drum
That lightning plays upon
when dybbuks from the ocean deeps
Rise Up
To sink my craft and all aboard in
Flaming Parodies
Of a movie Viking funeral
*ljm*
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 7:07 PM UTC
I begin my walk
on the circled asphalt path
behind the old Lutheran church
founded in 1790
the crickets chirp
a defiant roar
as I descend upon their quiet space
clouds are dark and a bit threatening
are they spirits taking form above me?
mistral winds on a windless day
seem to gather and fuse into words
sentences
held for a moment...clear
then lost to fuzzy and distorted whispers
'They are here...'
'Isaac'
'Listen to me...I must kill'
'I have an angel'
'power'
before departing
I stop at a headstone
I'm not sure why
but I attempt
to pronounce the last name of this departed soul
3 times
on the 3rd try I am interrupted by a young boy
who corrects me with the proper pronunciation
I turn at the gate and advise the spirits
that I am leaving
a friendly 'okay' came back to me
my God
I have walked in the living room of the dead
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 2:51 PM UTC
it's a torched wind rushing into my arms
like a dreary pale leaf that wants an embrace
in dusty minuscules of sullen, sultry soil
i step out, open my heart to the sun-dried soul
glutinously holding back to me in sunk roars
the wind drinks every drop of my fluid state
i shiver in languor, i bear up with strength
and thus is revived the breeze everyday
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 3:34 AM UTC
Mistral streams from the sea
Gusts over uneven terrain
Zephyr carries with purpose on its journey
Draft whirls leaves from a neat pile
Blast ***** my hair in my eyes
Sally arches well rooted trees
Breeze makes a baby catch its breath
Air current sways a free floating kite
Surge rotates cyclone with malevolence
Squall powers voluminous sails
Flutter lands spinning trash at my feet
Tempest moves on and is gone
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 2:39 PM UTC
On a steamy island sprayed in melodic days.
Dancing in rhythm as the porpoise play.
Some hymn and some pray enchanting ways,
in the swim and sway of the melody of day.
Languishing in canopy of young vines rope,
as passionate couples intertwine at *****
below the emerald silence of mountain slope,
heed the joyful herald of fountains of hope.
As cool and winding shady green rivers distill,
hear the tropic's aviary song, sweetest minstrel,
thrashing and dancing in seas azure blue crystal,
as the softly salted winds conjure in Ol' Mistral.
Drift away drinks of colored Caribbean ice,
air scented of cinnamon, mango and spice,
as we hymn and we pray enchanting ways,
in the swim and sway of the melody of day.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 3:48 PM UTC
Having just climbed
through ages
up what seemed an endless flight
of narrow winding gothic spiral stairs
I step out
right into the wind's brute force
instinctively
my arms grasp for a hold
fearful lest I blend suddenly
with the white horses
and the fields of the Camargue
far down below
Wedged safely
in a nook of stone
a hefty tourist
leans out wide between the walls
toward the setting sun
her summer skirt is blown waisthigh
revealing
unexpectedly delicate lace
above sturdy thighs
her body opens
to the strong soft touch
of the Mistral
A little later
she walks past me
clothes gathered
level gaze calm
and self-assured
and leaves me wondering
whether the mighty abbot
on his solitary tower
and his exclusive brotherhood of men
had ever understood
the wind that blew
and still blows
through two feet of stone
like they were silk
and thrills a woman
to her bone
* * *
© Walter W. Hoelbling
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 4:02 PM UTC
it is not the tier of enmeshed leaves
nor the zither of green. none is their duty
to discover the lunar hook of moon.
— the old bamboo is the mistral
danseuse tonight.
whatever the etcetera
of it, whatever the birds demand from it.
a sling of breath is far-flung into the sky
announcing merriment before the child
beheads the tulip,
before the creature chokes the pistil,
before the light enters slow-churn
of synthesis.
hearing the giggling of bush in
the mire of wind, heaving in all kinds
of sleep, the children, the weather,
together; synapses drunk in translation
and we feel no longer the secret
of a guerrilla behind the foliage.
it is only the heraldry of the world
when the morning unclips its wing,
as monsoons continue their bushwhack
amongst petty citations.
past oceans gleaming and
away from hills dreaming — by the
river, dead of heart, riveting silence
of land, past the battered bridge in Marilao tracing deathlier waters,
all gone in recall, something
i scour to find only pining away from
scarcity of remember. it is never their
duty to bring back its image
to dance with me again.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 9:04 AM UTC
~
along the golden sands she runs,
swinging arms, matching stride;
crashing waves bring seagull crumbs,
deposit treasures with each tide.
sea shells scattered on the sands,
like incantations on the wind;
she gathers them amidst the strands,
blending voice above the din!
each gusty wave of her baton,
the wind is maestro to this band;
from cockle’s flute the highest pitch,
to conch’s cello, deep & rich.
the tulip’s voice of brass cornet,
of scallop’s rippling clarinet;
the kettle drum of florida’s cone,
and hammered strings of angel’s wings!
instrumental simplicity,
ancient chords, rehearsed refrain;
her call to join each voice unique,
each grain of sand, each clapping wave,
leaping toward orchestral stage,
calling forth their joyous praise.
till mistral bows in whispered hush,
a thunderous crash, their glad applause!
~
maestro -
a distinguished musician, especially
a conductor of classical music.
mistral -
a strong, cold northwesterly wind
that blows into the Mediterranean.
~
Nov 25, 2018
Nov 25, 2018 at 10:11 PM UTC
When you fall asleep you are never
Where you are when you
Wake up.
The speed that your bed
travels in a second might keep
You awake.
It feels like standing still.
A nothing wind or mistral.
Then it doesn't.
And it's hard to stop.
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 12:56 AM UTC
I can hear the baby quail,
they’re telling me, from in the hay bales
and chirping like little frogs.
While they themselves
**** back their bog pockets,
bloom, press the weak wood, and leak to me.
The trickle-slap pipistrelle
in subito notes, that hit and fall,
that explain to me so frantically.
crooning to me so mutually
and between themselves,
like organs pumping air into each other.
The birds sail on it over fields
relying on the attitude of the night,
feeling out its hot rushes.
In sensory geography,
dependent on a mood of its own.
In an ocean, emancipated from the moon.
The sky-lung, plays its shivering reeds
Where the spores, the sycamore, shattering
in crochets, quavers, in minims,
on any mistral score
are mooring till but a touch of direction.
It hears all of what my fingers feel.
It tastes all of which my eyes are witless.
The asp in the verge tasting me
with undulating flick of forked tongue
in aromatic echolocation,
both received and given by all.
The curious noses of foxes
between the furious foxglove
sifting out the berries of effort,
of strain and sweat in fur
haunting out from the stems.
There they find the scared,
shouting in the language of the animal.
And when the colours leave the flowers with the day
the night is painted in flavoursome air.
The night which licks at your ear,
the night that chatters amongst itself,
sonic charybdis,
whirling in the moth-light.
The dark side of the earth
is facing me.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 11:38 AM UTC
There is a choir and an orchestra
and I talk less
when I know they're there,
somewhere an accordion plays, a busker,
me
in other days would prefer to hear
the street performer,
the troubadour,
the wanderer with his songs wrapped up and on his heart, trapped in the keys, he plays the accordion, at ease with all,
a penny for the guy.
Each note, a wave that reaches land, and slowly waits, almost hesitates to touch on ears and the ocean in his tunes fill me with something only I can see,
others hear and see so differently, but that is fine,
he becomes the metaphor for wine, the wind red cheeks of time, the autumn when the leaves turn green, the Northern lights, a postcard scene but others hear and see it differently than me and that is fine.
No less a choir and an orchestra, the wanderer who roams at will to fill me one again with the pain of never,
in the tunes
I
will be
forever
lost.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 7:01 AM UTC
air
you are a breath, fresh of it
blast
make me laugh
breeze
keep it easy
cyclone
hasty hurtful words
followed by
gales
of forgiveness
gust
oh!
blow
in my ear again
breath
taken away with a kiss
chinook
summer breeze
makes me feel fine
draft
make me shiver
flurry
my insides
flutter
my heart
mistral
we're rarely that cool
toward each other
unless (see: cyclone)
puff
the magic dragon
tempest
stormy passion
typhoon
come into the eye my darling
wafting
scent of love
whiff
when we blow it
whirlwind
us.
by definition.
whisk
me away
zephyr
gentle me again
This is, in so many words,
The rarefied air
we are privileged to breathe
Deep draughts of love.
Between you and me.
Breathe with me.
My beloved.
Breathe.
Oct 18, 2020
Oct 18, 2020 at 3:47 PM UTC
Thought I might wake with
something more than bellyache,but
No,
Today the only way I go is
down.
London,
what a dreary town,
what kind of place is this to be?
this whirlpool of woe is
a mistral of misery.
Smoking now,
smoking,
how I wish the flames would bite,
ignite and in the inferno, would be
somewhere
where I'd go
quite
willingly.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 11:40 PM UTC
An arc of embodiment
Decadent perfumed petticoats swirled to order
Power ****** from the sweat of the land
Stone hewn from its very foundations
A spider's web encloses the flowering art
Phoenician helmeted raiders
Roman taxing invaders
Trespassing Gaulish voices
Thumbed rosary transcenders
The dawn of a walled resistance
A Religious pandemic
Storming Carcistes
Razats rebel
Friends denounce their own
A castle evokes revolutionary fever
Ghosts reverberate running the embattlements
Proletarians open the walls
Guardians red and blue
White clergy take the souls
Swords discarded, a tricolore soars
Slaves to the chisel
Open pits for Vulcan to dip his toes
Gothic Cavernous quarried vaults
in search of Sade’s demons
Stone to shape Provencal style
Dereliction a Maquis delight
Refuging resistance and the persecuted
Destruction and collapse
Artisans and folk revive
Paint brushes to the fore
Transientents page the streets with blood red gold
A coat of arms rings its bell
Lowly hovels now adored
Gaping holes swallow the light
Sleepers enrichen the ground
Too long a museum
Stirring string notes
Cherups embrace their calling
Voices rouse the deities
Banners furl in mistral breaths
Spirits hightail Lacoste’s new allies
Iced sun rises over Luberons range
Warmth caresses the blood of day
School children playing, wake the sleepy
Warm stews vie with Pistou
Hallowed vines are groomed
Long walks with herbs to find
Boars try and outwit their hunters
Dogs smell the truffles afar
Ventoux snows cool the view
Cyclists roar through in celebration
Village a transforming microcosm
Artists absorb, evolving a creation
Animate habitants living and the vogue
A hearty cocooned culture emerging out into
longer days luring the coming spring
Feb 8, 2021
Feb 8, 2021 at 9:51 AM UTC
As you slept last night, and I lied awake beside you, I was drenched in
Your Love For Me
Your kind and angelic soul warming my heart, and soothing my racing mind, i could feel your presence, smell your essence, I could touch you if my will collapsed, but I stay strong with the power of
Your Love For Me
I could hear you breathing, your dreams were weaving, sowing to and fro conducting your pretty hazel eyes to twitch n rapid concession like a rhythmic prelude to a magical mistral, under the healing and rejuvenating sanctity of your eyelids, you healed me and made me strong, like you always do with
Your Love For Me
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 4:39 PM UTC
Poursuivi par les rafales
les cyprès se penchent au soleil –
Mistral
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 10:40 PM UTC
Hang me high,
closer to heaven when I die.
I'll have less steps to climb.
Place my ashes on Mistral winds
over tranquil pastures.
I will spread to the lands I have traveled.
Wipe your tears with pictures of us.
On better days
with any luck
I will live in memories
Apr 29, 2021
Apr 29, 2021 at 12:43 PM UTC
she took deep breath of him through her eyes
he snaked through her brain down her neck straight to her heart
there he stopped to drink from that sacred bowl,
then coiled and wiggled his way to her ***
she felt a surge as her organs shook
her breath came in bursts.
her mind snapped from her inhibition like a flag
in a stiff wind.
she knew his scent without going near him
it was fern-laced and green, and she wanted
to put her nose to him and inhale to the bottom of her lungs.
she felt his ****** mistral blow through her, warming her limbs
he was water-wind-breath, po-wa-ha.
she felt her old skin peel away in the force of his mistral,
in the clean wash of his waterlight,
and the caress of his breathing on the air around them.
she stepped out of her old pelt to reveal
the woman she had always been.
c. 1995/2017 Roberta Compton Rainwater
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 4:17 PM UTC