Notes of Midday Meeting with Water


A poet’s milk & bread is invisible
A writer’s images are never finished

We gaze without worldly rewards
Like a monk, our meditation is the pen

Where knowing is no different from dreaming
With friends, like final dialogues

Or the conjunction of stars nobody cares about
Distances between our names, and the thing

Are abolished, we require strong philosophies
To continue, without realistic fantasies

Strong solar songs that aren’t diminished
By lovers leaving us, or the rent being late

When history sleeps, we remember
Here with creative love, a few things suffice

Hermits to a thorny corrupt planet
We make do with anemic hope buried

Beneath manuscripts of our feverish alchemy
The relations which govern hymn and speech

We unearth with curved-word and sacred vows
To ourselves, to all our conscience-mirror that liquifies

The spirit process of our melting
Until we taste the very Resurrection
Of ourselves silent, in what we do, what we create.

Photography attributed to:

16 thoughts on “Notes of Midday Meeting with Water

    • yes the passion that has no true satiety actually…what a fleeting lover is art!

      So erratic, eccentric and obscure a lover! I guess we are doomed 😛

      • Doomed indeed, as my ‘tag name’ hints at the irony of this insatiable search, my soul hungers and wanders seeking satiety but continues to growl incessant with desire for the fleeting passion to ignite my wonder and for expression to burst forth. I am content with this doom 😉

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