Category: Uncategorized

New York Harbor, One September


I first published this poem in 2012, remembering a sail into New York Harbor only days after September 11, 2001—the altered skyline, the smoke upon the water, and the journey back toward home.

New York Harbor, One September

… a September memory, 2001

September comes
with its whimsical wind,
and the bittern’s barbaric yawp
echoes across the creek,
a snowfall of seagulls perch
upon the jetty,
watch
as we hoist our sails
at the mouth of the bay —

the sloop floats like paper
blown
by a little boy’s breath,
past inlet coves and marinas:
we reach the Harbor,
the sun’s golden glint turns to rust,
the air is clothed
with subtle shrouds of grey
for weeping —

far off into the distance the skyline
is a ghastly dream,
toothless
of two towers,
and the salt air mingles with smoke
and burning steel,
ashened mortar,
the  putrescence
of flesh and flowers —

we turn around,
maneuver the wind,
the charts and tides,
to reach our own secluded harbor,
cradled by the arms of moonlight—
we throw down the anchor,
fall asleep under a cupola
of infinite constellations.

by D. G. Vachal. © 2012

*** photography by slgckg @Flickr Commons

Archipelago

Archipelago

Between now and oblivion
lies an archipelago
infinitesimal
as a grain of sand,
expansive as the universe
of my remembrances:
where lost loves wander
stranded,
entangled,
enslaved.

The islands are mine:
the ylang-ylang,
jasmine and hibiscus —
let the florid scents haunt
my shipwrecked loves
as taunting ghosts warble
melodies of our laughter —
let parrots recite my poetry
from parchments drenched
in perfumed
tears.

O Archipelago!
for the leaving
I cannot leave,
for the weeping
I cannot weep —

tidal waves do not
wear you down,
nor the anger
of volcanoes —

you are always there
between now and oblivion.

by D. G. Vachal © 2012

* photograph: Archipel Sulu, Phillipinen by Volker

… an edited version of the original poem written in 2012

“Apples of the Unseen”



I grasp apples of the unseen,
bite deep into the pulp:
the tartness impels the furtive
flight of feet
to a wilderness far
from this tended garden —

Surrounded by the rustle
of sycamore leaves,
I hear the eagle
wingspans of Your voice,
I run for shelter

cocoon-ensconced
from the clamorous
strife of tongues,
I await
the song-soft whispers,
the lemon-yellow flutters —

Fragile wings bloom
with every springtime rose,
watered by vibrant,
crimson rivulets
flowing
from the distant hill.

by D. G. Vachal © 2013

“Thou shalt hide them in the secret of thy presence from the pride of man: thou shalt keep them secretly in a pavilion from the strife of tongues.” Psalm 31:20