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There are certain times of sadness when a little spark of happiness enters your mind and finds its way to your heart; your heart shakes up your brain and in a state of half slumber, the latter responds: "Yes, I knew this all the time..."
From so much repeating to myself That life has not treated me well, I forgot about the fact, That I had not been very fair to life either;
So many futile complaints, And the persistent struggle in confronting, In accepting, in admitting, errors that I have made.
Opportunities snatched away by fear, Or opportunities that I have wasted, From sheer laziness of acting; Not having known how to choose.
For the first time ever, I open my eyes wide, And manage to grasp the essence of moments; As if chasing delicate butterflies, Whose beauty I admire intensely and gently set free again.
Moments in which, I surprise myself breathing, And feel as though I were touching my own life; Like a light spirit that inhabits and fascinates me, And with whom I daily find myself trying to familiarise.
It's like softly touching a fresh wound, Which has only just started to heal; A mortal desire to scratch it, Held back only by the greater dread of hurting oneself yet again.
Underneath this throbbing wound, I can guess my fragile imperfection; Wicked witch's soup, on the eternal point of explosion;
And so, holding back the moment, Licking the wound instead of scratching, I beg the volcano not to erupt, So that the lava may embalm instead of burning.
It's like aspiring to tame a beast, Managing to control one's own self; It's like being the apprentice of a wise wizard, Who dangerously guides us to the point of madness, Before opening the only window, Through which, we will be able to free ourselves.
His purest teaching, is in the clue of the moment, Of this ever-present moment, that yet is so hard to clutch.
Perhaps that may be the error, Of wanting to hold back instead of admiring, What time renders unreachable, untouchable, inaccessible; The moment is like a wave of the ocean.
Perhaps one should be as fluid, as free and unattainable as the wave, And only learn to enjoy the sensation; The moment is but a feeling, Which does not require the abuse of reason.
A permanent state of vigilance, An undressing of the constant preoccupation, Of finding the solution to the problems, Which turn us into threads, in the fabric of our own dissolution.
I know how easy it is to say it, It could be that this poem is also a lack of concentration, But I am continuously surrounded by stars, And cannot forget that they are the prime matter of creation.
There is something unintelligible. There is something which evades my comprehension; But it is something unquestionable, Because only my heart can perceive it.
When I speak the least and the more I avoid any conversation, Is when fragments of the secret visit me with frequent determination.
I gather them like a treasure and I do not lock them up, As they have no point of concretion; They are like jigsaw puzzles, Made up of snippets of pure perception.
I try to keep them inside my mind, And somehow avoid the daily matters from destroying their subtlety, And at the first opportunity of finding myself alone, or in very good company, I invoke them again to continue the construction.
These awakening moments, When a smile matters a thousand times more than any declaration, These amazing moments, Creators of the most beautiful song,
Are when my imperfection, Forgets about its shortcomings, And breaks loose from its monster in a state of boiling.
They are when my gardens blossom, And the only thing that explodes, Is the most intensely pure, Incredibly gentle and genuine emotion.
Sorry , I didnt realise I had run out of E's for today , and it hasnt taken the rating . Thats never happened to me before ! I will pop back tomorrow and rate it for you . Jane xx
Janej47 17.12.2005 00:27
This is , to my mind , is more prose than poetry .. I have a couple of pieces in my reviews , " Time " and " Silence " , written in a similar style but without the division of traditional poetic line and verse. I suppose it depends on how it is read and phrased in your mind , and that will be different for everyome who views it . Lovely . Thanks . Jane xx