Tag: Writing

Chestnuts in Kowloon

Chestnuts in Kowloon

I have been to the Fragrant Harbor
far away,
where the people sounded like rain
upon the cobblestones,
and their laughter I called my own,
for once, for a little while
I was there

with you as we walked
past market stalls with the cackle
of hagglers
and scents of sesame and jasmine
filled the air,
we climbed tall buildings
and the peak of a mountain,
I was there

with you as we crossed the harbor
along with salt and seaweed,
by noon we reached Kowloon
famished,
and we shared a paper bag
filled with roasted chestnuts:
there by the lotus pond,
the moist white warmth and our dreams
fed our nameless hunger —

now the Fragrant Harbor awaits
far away,
but I am no longer there,
save the shriveled husks of chestnuts
we threw away so long ago
that for once, for a little while
burned among the coals.

by D. G. V. © 2012

Last Days of Summer


Last Days of Summer

Lemon scents linger
from blooms of white magnolia,
while a cool breeze tiptoes,
donned in ornate lace
into a summer dusk cathedral:
I hear the mellow sound of shaken leaves
upon their sun-tanned branches,
harp strings stroked by fingers
of the wind —

The purple grosbeak’s song endures
into the night,
nectared notes delight
as I revel in these ardent days
of crimson apples,
the primrose pulp of aubergine plums,
the musk-white fragrance of orange
blossoms,
the golden cloak of summer’s warmth
upon the vibrant flowers.

by D. G. V. © 2012

** photography by Roman Niku

Ripple

Ripple

How many pages of time have fallen like leaves
shaken from oaks by autumn winds —

You came from a distant land
fragrant
with plum blossoms,
where weeping willows shed their tears
upon the lakes,
and bamboo groves rustle love songs
in the summer breeze —

I remember

late afternoon by a lagoon so long ago,
into the water you threw a pebble,
concentric circles carved in liquid,
widened  into forever,
flowed into the oceans,
kissed the setting sun.

I remember

you gave me a name,
inscribed in ink:
two characters in graceful dance,
as you pointed to the circles,
the ripple you awakened
with the pebble in your hand.

I have forgotten

the rainbow,
the butterfly by that lagoon so long ago,
and milky water lilies sprightly with scarlet hearts,
for a thousand footsteps have carried us miles away,
to separate continents,
other loves.

by D. G. V. © 2012

*** Photography by Oleg Dmitriev, Circles on the water

A Childhood Memory of My Father

 

for my father — a childhood memory….


Late morning silhouette:
unwelcome shadows,
purple grey subtlety
suffocate the sun
I am befuddled by the silence,
absence of laughter,
ordinary talk,
the smile on my mother’s face —

Sunday respite away from home,
a town where my father was born, we would
spend hours at Aunt Andrea’s house
until the sunset bid farewell
and the gas lamps gave light along with fireflies
and the crickets chirped on.

I was a little child less than school age
in pigtails and petticoats
wondering where my father went that day
for I longed for his strong presence
amidst this baffling purple silhouette —

I crossed the pebbled country road,
climbed up a stunted hill
to Grandma’s house and I found
my father weeping,
hunched under a native fruit tree,
mournful violin strings uncontrollable,
relentless rivulets of tears cascade
for a brother to be buried,
at height of youth,
poisoned
at a town feast the week before
a chef’s senseless blunder —

Wide brown eyes watched in wonder,
my little child’s heart cried at his distress and he
looked back and beheld his daughter,
his countenance contorted in grief softening,
and slowly the mournful music lulled
as he staggered to where I stood
and my father held my hand
and he and I chased the purple shadows out of the morning
as we walked down the hill
along with life and the sunlight.

© 2012 by D. G. Vachal, revised 2021

* photography by Аркадий Деев

Where Love Dwells

Where Love Dwells

“And Jacob served seven years for Rachel: and they seemed unto him but a few days, for the love he had to her.”  Genesis 29:20

Love dwells in eternal habitations,
where seasons form
as the dew from heaven
upon the grass —

In quiet abodes
where burdens are weightless
as scattered feathers
afloat
between the branches —

Where the waiting
is not waiting
and the silence is palpable
as the song
of apple blossoms.

by  D. G. Vachal © 2012