at midnight I can smell for miles
the scents of highway asphalt, coasting, sunroof down,
at 75 -- just off from work
and ignoring the burn of my feet.
Beyond the skunk and woodsmoke,
my patchouli wal-mart freshener,
and leafy loamy hilly forests....
I think I smell my freedom.

fireflies like litha fires will come soon.
the blazing light of July skies
will come with golden noon.
elder blossoms, lily blooms --
they will come soon.
but in the dewy spring near-dawn
I saw the summer moon.

a poem written for a spanish assignment. I'll provide a translation behind the cut, but even if one can't understand the language one should always try to savor the sound and feel of a poem's native words before polluting its purity with the muddling echoes of your tongue. :) and if you do speak spanish well, feel free to point out any mistakes. i'm still learning the language and i make no pretenses at perfection.

la aridez

Las arenas secas y gravilla granuladas,
los barros rajadas que salpican el desierto
no crecen nada de plantas floridas --
florecen solamente los guijarros castigados.

Por la tierra yerma, las mesas codiciosas
empujan al cielo sus páramos perdidos.
Ellas que sueñan de vistas nubladas
ofrecen sus huesos en tributo gritando.

Aún las montañas rezan de paz.
Son los labios partidos al borde del desierto.
Una vez lejana conocían la negrura
de nubarrones obscuros, ya olvidados.

La brisa susurra de las azucenas rojas
y del estío trayendo alivio.
Las mesas deseosas se arrancan la ropa --
pronto vendrán las lluvias anheladas.




( Translation and more below )

A Malaysian form centering around repetition, I found this form surprisingly comfortable to write in. Then again, I took liberties with my repetition, but that's because strict repetition sounded too forced to my ear...

Pantoum of a forgotten God

The sun is risen, I go into the West;
away beyond hills that shelter my shame.
I depart these fields where once I was blessed
for lands of dark shadow that know not my name.

And beyond these hills that shelter my shame
here am I bereft, here am I alone.
These lands of dark shadow know not my name
but the home I once knew is no longer my own.

Here am I bereft, here am I alone.
None know my songs or seek out my aid
but the home I once knew is no longer my own
and gone are its prayers and incense and shade.

None here know my songs or seek out my aid
in this exile-tomb, I strive to be heard.
Though gone are the prayers and incense, the shade
soothes my parched spirit, gives strength to my word.

In this exile-tomb, I will yet be heard.
I forsake these fields where once I was blessed
to renew my parched spirit and give strength to my word.
The sun is setting, I arise in the West.

There are reasons I cannot write, you know;
no time or place, or perhaps it was snow
in the middle of April that did me in--
I cannot feel spring when winter won't go.

And after all that, how do I begin?
How to fix the question and yes, what then?
If I cannot write cheerily, why write at all?
The world has had enough of madness and sin.

I cannot shape words or squeeze into balls
the sense of just how rainy spring lulls
the sleepy green buds, quiet on the tree,
into dreams of new leaves and baby bird calls.

And among the talk of locks and keys
of quills and keyboards and you and me
the moon out my window smiles and says:
But the buds dream of love and somehow, I see.

...things have changed.

eleven p.m., senior year

Our city, so small, still seems so seamy
when its nearly midnight
and I’m looking out through storefronts
at streetlights, red lights, and a silver gash of moon
just small enough to almost fit between us.
Five minutes, no more, was all it took me
in a cramped office, in a back hallway
to reverse the thoughts and deeds of four long years --
that anger between us, crammed into an inch.
Two years ago, I would’ve sworn that I hated you.
Two days ago, you could’ve had me right there.

Cold and smiling
cruel and effervescent, the heart
of high-class hallways and
the whole of winter
distilled. She has known
those fertile valleys,
felt the moon upon her back
and smiled, felt a heartbeat
grow and swell and crack
back to nothing.
Her voice all boiling,
her tongue all spilling over,
until the sound is only powder
crushed
and falling like new snow.

And she took a cautious step forward, felt the light upon her face, and flinched back; having ever been a creature of shadow this sensation was new to her. But she liked it, and when she shut her eyes she could thrill to the warmth on her face -- she did not see her skin rise up in pustules, nor did her mind sound the alarm as flesh and tendon shriveled. She died of joy, and of light, because for all of the professed goodness of mankind there are those among us who were never made to be happy.

Let’s reach forth for solid ground,
if only to know the coast.
Too long spent adrift at sea
with only the moon for company
makes for bitter and horrid ghosts.

And who could turn and dive again?
Could be a mermaid, driving down
into the soft and foamy sea?
Or cease to struggle, and slowly drown?

I swear, somewhere there’s a shore I knew
hidden within the mist.
The stony sand sang to the sea;
the waves, in turn, sang to me
of eyes once loved and lips once kissed,
of pale vein-lines on an ivory wrist,
and the simple request your ears once missed:

Please don't give up on  me.

First poem I'm surprised by how well it actually mirrors the way I think and the patterns of my brain. Read it aloud, or at least whisper it; it's the way it's supposed to be. Not slow or measured, but kind of 'all in one breath' -- it's a confession, sort of. Half admittance and half advice. In fact, the title means 'a piece of advice' in French. Oh, and a kashikoi poem. Whom I'm now certain knows, though I don't know whether he was clever enough to figure it out on his own or if someone snitched. :/ Considering kashikoi means 'clever' or 'wise', I find the latter option rather ironic... Also, if you don't understand the references at the bottom, you can google search them... or SPOILER ALERT! they're different types of sacred prostitutes, women who practiced sexual healing in the name of various divinities. Hope I  didn't ruin anything for anyone. :3

Second poem, inspired by tonight. Met a nice girl through a mutual friend, she seems like an amazing person and told me that she thinks just that of me: literally said, ' you are an amazing person'. I introduced her to Pocky; she got me to drink Monster and like it. >_> In proud Campathian tradition, her name is 'kimi', a Japanese word for 'you' (of which they have tons, surprising for a language where they more often than not omit pronouns or subjects entirely). But ' kimi' has a feminine meanining -- as if tu in French had a gender like il or elle instead of being neutral and taking on its antecedent's gender. So, kimi she is.
( Cut to actual poetry... )

New poetry, yes. Le gasp
I have some from the poem challenges (not that I ever finished it, no) but I'm not posting them right now...
Instead, we have a poem that's kind of a love poem, but not a koishii poem. In fact, well, if koishii is koishii then we'll call him, um, kashikoi. It works well, I think, and sounds less feminine than the name I'd had in my head earlier. The second is also a kashikoi poem, but again not a love poem. There are more conflicting feelings between he and I, I think, and given past events I don't know if I'm quite confident enough to love him. Yet? Again? Choose your own modifier; I sure as hell don't know.


( Two poems for Kashikoi )