Do you remember? Remember, the time we went to the moor? Barefoot round a turning in the path— in the darkness an unexpected scent touched us, of honey, heather and gorse bush which seems to be embroidered into the very landscape.
Tell me how do you feel? Sleeplessness unveiling itself from the bitter blue sky; if only we could paint choices on its walls wouldn’t need to then endure all that follows. I am slightly damp, for romance of melancholy found within the classics refuse to leave me; is this what it means to be an old soul?
We look at him through the wrong end of the long telescope of time, mortality, my dear, is a flavor long attached with the moors. And I wonder if expansiveness, if mere concept that tugs needs to be explored more often? Do we cry or rest?
Watery-white, the moon casts its glow onto the city, the sycamore maple silhouetted, in the distance, against the obsidian sky. Have you ever wondered how the moon could be bringing heightened emotions to surface? Like the sudden blooming of colour that sears through one’s cheeks, the tide with its waves rolling in and out, its rhythm as steady as our own— have you noticed how similar the magnetic effect?
I am lonesome, the light from my iPhone much like absent rain not beating down; slender fingers scrolling through and replying to misunderstood syllables. Honestly speaking, I find that the moon senses a tinge of sweetness behind my eyes and in turn lends to fiery spirit. I am hardly one to pout while seated upon plush furniture; it’s too much work in my opinion. I’d rather smile my way through the floodwaters of relating myself to the world.
Sanguine moon observes, the rush of blood during a full phase— heron calls.
Slipping subtly through to lift the blackness is want; its brazen light shimmers across dark waters, just outside, and streams in through the space between my curtains. “Sometimes, all that a heart needs is a push.”
In their dreams they sleep with the moon; freed of gravity, flail up to dimensions of realms unknown. Herons, unlike us, fret not over gulls not accepting them. I am a soft, silent September night sewn by the sense of you. I tell myself misgiving is first and foremost an
external force, stating that one isn’t capable of handling situations; are we seriously going to allow it to stand in our way?
I hold a perfect salt-bleached shell to my ear, listen to the voices reaching out from all sides. Sweet, succulent, savory, the sting
that rises within erases all remains. I prefer stewing in dreams wide
Whatever happens, happens once. It’s ephemeral like passing mist. Somewhat like the taste of dark chocolate, the night less than nocturnal; life is brutal that way, the moments that touch us are also those we can never hold onto for long.
I write them down every chance I get. The exquisite blend of hot and cold; that is life. When I found him, I learned things I never knew about myself. How I long to kiss his lips, shapely as a rosebud, sometimes I still my thoughts in hopes of hearing his heartbeat. We are many miles apart at the moment. We will remember once when it is over, said and
done – it was a time and there was never enough of it.
By day the café is the colour of bergamot orange. I hold on to knowledge that it’s disposition alone that determines affinity.
“That’s not what I meant!” I sigh as I go through the comment section. The mixed responses make me wonder how it’s possible for people to misunderstand a poem.
Outside the rain conjures a sweet pattern along the rustic pavement. I watch as the droplets fall from a confident sky and wonder if words I write convey emotion properly.
It is then that I recall the wisdom of a much loved and dear friend. Poetry is like art. Everybody has their own interpretation and that’s all right.
I tend to write a lot of love poems. It’s what I do. But a very few people know that my poems are actually based on my life! Each poem recounts a different story from a different time and era.
For example, October: When Poets Dream, Lament and Sing speaks of the time when I was besotted by a man who loved nobody but himself. Of course, I had no idea at the time. The poem speaks about pain and invisible scars.
Do I like it when people misinterpret a poem? To be honest, not a bit! But then, even I have misunderstood other people’s work from time to time.
But oh, when a poem strikes a chord! Now that is the most beautiful feeling in the entire world. A few months ago I wrote a confessional poem that resonated with every person who read and commented on it.
Twenty-three hit me like a hammer/ drove me over the edge/I slept with danger and flirted with the idea of death. Dark Origin is one of the most personal poems I have ever written.
I am going to be very honest. I was terrified! The moment I hit the publish button I thought to myself. “What have I done?” But when the responses started coming in, I felt relieved! I was happy that I shared the most intimate part of my life with people whom I wrote poetry alongside with.
I use to become annoyed when a poem was misunderstood. But no more. When has the moon ever complained for being both light and dark?