“The Poet’s Voice”

Equatorial Jungle

The poet’s voice warbles
where plaintive cellos echo
from vine to hanging vine
in rain-
drenched equatorial jungles —

trills mid-air with the sparrows,
traverses

clandestine recesses,
myriads of breadcrumb
ant trails,
rocky mountain ridges
of wind-sculptured silence —

The poet’s hand gathers
the orchard fruit promise
birthed at nighttime
from fragrant white blossoms —

The poet’s feet dance
somewhere in a warmer province
tango
across a million grains of sand
aglow with the colors
of the dawning sun.

by D. G. Vachal © 2015

 

Image Credit: Wikimedia Commons, “Equatorial Jungle” by Henri Rousseau.  This is a faithful photographic reproduction of an original two-dimensional work of art. The work of art itself is in the public domain for the following reason: This work is in the public domain in the United States, and those countries with a copyright term of life of the author plus 100 years or less.

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

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“Winter Interim of the Heart”

by Eugene Dudarev
There is a winter interim of the heart
when a million white butterflies descend
from ripened cocoons in the sky,
soundless wings flutter,
cluster into spools of wool
for the weaving loom.

Surrounded by the starkness of white
you search for rainbow colors
only to find an empty, outstretched
canvas upon the easel,
an artist’s paintbrush, a pail of gesso,
your naked hands.

There is a winter interim of the heart,
a jagged juncture of time when you discard
easel and paintbrush,
for the weaving of wool,
the molding of sculptures
steadfast in the evanescent snow.

by D. G. Vachal © 2014

*** Photography by Eugene Dudarev