Translator

Stranger to both lands,
Native to one,
Feeling the way,
(Blind and blindfolded)
From where I am
To where (I know not)
I want to be.

Blossoms Unseen

There used to be a girl—
Do you remember her?
She used to dog your steps,
Follow you around,
Listen to you talk,
Hang on to your every word,
Blush when you smiled at her.

You remember her, right?
A bit shy, that girl,
She had big black eyes
That did most of the talking
And a soft sweet voice
That we hardly ever heard,
In all those days and years.

Have you forgotten her,
The girl on the edges of the crowd?
She looked so very longingly,
But never spoke to you,
Because she was too scared,
Because it meant too much,
Because she loved you so.

Do you remember,
Or have you forgotten her?
Did you never even know
That she was there?

masks

black anger
that demands release
in scarlet tears
must yet be appeased
by salt, torn
from a raging heart,
and half-fed,
retreat behind,
be held captive by,
a solemn countenance.

how easily are they fooled,
who wish so to be,
till even those who
saw it in the making
doubt its veracity,
and all the fragile bridge
comes tumbling down
at a single wrong touch
and you and i drift,
again, inexorably apart.

A Teller of Tales

A teller of tales
Is only as good
As the worlds she weaves
And she has always woven well,
But the world she weaves best
Is the one those around her
Call real.

Of love and suchlike things

For Telemachus

And here, in the midst of all our solitudes and lonely nights, here, away and apart and aloof from the crowds around us, I reach for you and hesitate and falter and draw back, and the moment passes, and if its shredded wings brush your skin in farewell, you show no sign of it, and we-- you and I both, my dear, and I assign and equally apportion the blame-- turn down safe, well-trodden paths, away from all that whispers of danger, and speak only frivolity, and set our faces firmly against the promise and warning of all that could have been, and, at the turn, your hand slips from mine, and we go our separate ways.

Adieu, my love.

Bound.

You pull me down--
Wrists tied and ankles bound,
And a blindfold over staring eyes--
Drag me to 'reality'
And try to paralyse my mind.
Mock my flights of phantsy
Hurt and harm and try to tame,
Bury and burn and drown me.
And yet, fingers tight 'round my throat,
You whisper soft words, my love,
And your mouth is warm on mine.
And were I to give you me...
But I cannot and shall not,
So the question doesn't apply.

(This ties in with Bereft.)

Those Who Have Died.

Those who have died,
Caught in the cross-fire,
Going, or trying to go,
About their daily lives,
Have never known why they died,
Not then, and not now.
That has not changed,
Perhaps it never will.
And collateral damage—
Such a pretty phrase for such
Devastating, mindless deaths—
Has always been part of war.
But those who kill, at least,
Had known, once, why they died,
For land, or wealth, or faith,
Or sheer bloody-minded revenge.
The blank, hateful eyes of these boys,
Seen behind masks or sighting down
The greasy barrels of gleaming guns,
Have only anger in them, and despair,
And a blind, unrelenting hatred,
Do they know why these people have had to die?

(It feels somehow fake and inadequate to write this, because I'm sitting at home, and have never faced such horror. And have no right, perhaps, to try this. But it's all I can do, and I can't not do it. Please gods, let at least some of those people live.)

Bereft

You have left me,
Master, mistress, rival, love,
And I wish it and un-wish it.
And beat my wings--
Plucked, pinioned, broken wings--
Against winds I cannot battle,
And long for my rusted shackles
And am heartsick for my cage,
And plummet to the ground,
And cannot bear to fly again--
No wrist I can come home to,
For you have left me,
Master, mistress, beloved, friend,
And I wish it and un-wish it.

Me

'I contain multitudes',
But only one can reign;
I shan't fly on coloured wings
From a shredded shell,
But, snake-like, shed my skin
And save my fangs.

Sleeping

In this darkened room,
Childhood around us
And dessicated innocence,
I watch black-fringed purple lids,
Closed in sinner's sleep.