Post by willowdown on Dec 28, 2008 22:24:27 GMT -5
I would pluck the kisses of doves
from your eyelids
and roam the gardens of heaven
on the wings of light you lend you.
There is in your eyes a light as bright
as any that dawn ever promised the earth
and glades of untrammeled paradise
waiting in your luminous gaze
- I might happily wander a lifetime
on little paths beside their lakes,
a country where delirium and contentment
meet beneath the feathered shade
of lashes sweetly washed with dew,
a fragrant forest lapped by seas of starlight
along whose shore I delightfully wander
holding your hand and hearing love's murmur
and when at last the red sun sets,
staining the world with glory,
I will quietly await the stars
that rise up from the sea
like flowers that will be stayed no longer
but must open their petals
to intoxicate the world with beauty.
Nor are your eyelids alone
the portals to such supernal wonder
Every incn of your skin is a gateway to delight
and if I had a million lives
I could never tire of kissing you:
the delicate shells of your ears
wherein are held the siren songs
of a thousand oceans;
your brow on which a thousand unnamed constellations
rise and fall each hour,
beneath them countless worlds of thought,
microcosms of intricacy and rapture
given form by the Word or wish
of the Creator who stands behind all appearences
and dreams all beautiful things
and none so wonderful as that marvellous day
when he gathers all His errant fancies back to Him
to greet each other in jovial astonishment and recognition;
your cheek down which ten thousand streams and rivers course,
irrigating flower-filled meadows
where butterflies meditate
and bees perform their sacred mystery
where, in orchards blessed by Summerland's eternal Sun
and watered by the tears of the Moon,
trees put forth apples that might satisfy
the hungers and desires
of all the Gods that ever were
and those still waiting to be born.
And grapes there are too in that marvellous country
one sip of which upon my wandering tongue
brings news for which the world has been waiting.
My lips might drink such wine forever
- until, that is, some deeper thirst takes hold of them
and I must place them to your lips
that lips and lips might love
and breath and breath might mingle
and the act of procreation begin
where two lights give birth to one
and one gives birth to many.
The red afterglow of dawn's warm kiss has finally softened
and day has put on her robes of golden sunlight.
The mist between the hills is lifting.
Young cows follow their mothers down the road
looking for sweet pasture.
Children in neat blue and white uniforms bicycle to school,
the roads are full of buses, bikes and tuk-tuks
carrying office-workers and commuters
to their places of work.
Some darkness still lingers out over Cat and Rat islands
in the form of low grey clouds
but they too have been caught up
in the spell of the burgeoning morning
and lift like a frown is lifted from a face
to show the eager expectancy beneath.
Let me kiss your perfect shoulder
and run my tongue down the gentle slope of your arm.
There are forests in your fingertips
and pools of sweet, refreshing snow-melt
are gathered in the palm of your hand,
a chalice at which I would sip
to cool and re-invigorate my sense-wearied Imagination.
Beneath your breasts your heart is beating
and in your belly a world is waiting
- I must dream an ocean from the palm of your hand
to prepare me for the challenge ahead,
the ascent of the hills of perfection
whereon your nipples proudly perch,
sun-gilded and guarded by dragons:
temples of magnificence
pavilions of plenty,
one full of milk, the other full of honey,
food and drink for all the heroes in Paradise
and sustenance for the future children of Mankind
and the races that will follow him.
By a pool full of reeds a bullfrog sits and croaks,
calling to his amnesiac mate.
Once, in his youth, he climbed Tang Kuan hill
and saw the nipples of the Goddess,
golden in the sunlight,
silver hazelnuts in the moonlight,
at which the wild things of the forest nibbled and feasted
whilst hamadryads plucked at lutes
and goat-footed lads danced wild dances
in the friendly shadows.
"Oh, my wife," calls out the bullfrog,
"where have you got to? Your children are hungry
and I am anxious for the touch of your
mottled shoulder next to mine.
This is no time to forget who you are:
a gentle wind is moving through the reeds
and in eternal Vrindhaban
blue-skinned Krishna is playing His flute.
The normally gentle-eyed cows are restive in the pasture
and cannot keep still,
they move their heads from side to side,
searching for something at the edge of the forest,
flicking their tails at imaginary flies.
The gopis too are seized with a subtle dissatisfaction;
putting their veils and bangles aside
they immerse themselves in the cool waters of a nearby stream
but still they are flustered and short-tempered
- they too have forgotten something
they cannot put a name to
and await the coming of moonlight
when the night jasmine and magnolia open their petals
and the over-burdened day will breathe
a sigh of relief, awaiting the Beloved."
*
But let us leave Mr. Bullfrog
- he is not the only creature in the world
Small and large, microscopic and great:
all like to think that they have problems.
Already it is nearing noon and in his palace of the Sky
the Sun is rushing headlong towards Mid-day.
"Oh my, oh my." he tears his haloed head and cries,
"one day, I just know, I will not reach the zenith in time
and shadows will be where shadows oughtn't...
I know I've I've done it ten million times
but sometimes my mind is just elswehere.
Would it really matter, I wonder,
if I were five minutes late?
would the saints and angels be clamouring at Heaven's gate
with tales of my remiss behaviour;
would Summer's flowers fail to open
and Autumn's fruits lose their flavour?
Well, perhaps they would, there's a first time for everything...
Just a few more golden steps more
and I'll have reached the top of the morning's steep, high stair.
You'd think I might then rest a moment
but no, my schedule is a busy one
and if I linger but an instant
people and plants would get quite flustered.
'Must we suffer this interminable heat', they'd grumble and moan,
'doesn't that lazy Sun have a home to go to?
We are all quite hot and bothered
and yet he seems to linger,
rejoicing in our toiling perspiration...
Ah, we long for evening's shadows
and the gentle conversation of our loved one's
when the day is done,
the happy laughter of our children
and the gentle balm of dusk and starlight.
Golden Sun, have a care for smaller things
and quit your high-carved golden throne,
amble a while in afternoon's shallows
and dream with us of unfinished things
- there is no need to shine quite so brightly, if you please.
There are still a miliion tomorrows and tomorrows...'"
And tomorrow I will love you
even more than I love you today
watching with quiet joy the growth of the seed
I have planted in your belly,
the swelling rondure of the Universe's horizon
the big bang that will one day expand to a whimper,
a brand new flame to re-ignate extinquished hearts
sorrowful ashes and cinders
as the worst is forgotten and the best
is magnified a millionfold
and all the stories ever told
come true,
a little part of me, a little part of you
and a million parts of a million things
- all that is and ever was
and a million things quite new,
eager to leap into exquisite existence and being
eager to see the light of day
eager to clap its hands and play
eager to chase its own shadow
through the twilit forests of memory,
out across the wind-stroked fields and meadows of morning
and oceans of fathomless desire.
And still I have only just begun to love you.
I have quite forgotten the differences between 'you' and 'me',
'self' and 'other',
following the impress of your footsteps
along the wave-washed shore.
People say you have fled the world
or even suggest that you never existed.
They can see your footsteps no more
than the beauty of the world all around them.
I laugh at them.
I do not follow some figment of my Imagination
- have I not held your feet in my two hands
and bathed them in kisses and tears?
Have I not lost myself in the painted colour on your toenails
and danced myself into ecstacy
trying to keep up with your unmeasured step?
It is they who are the fools, not I.
Your footsteps are clearly visible
gently bending each blade of grass
gently shepherding the clouds of the sky,
visible in the dreams and songs of trees
the lullabies of lakes,
the prophecies of rivers and mountainns,
the bullfrog's lament and the pensive caress
of the softly-feathered eye.
Your footsteps lead through Vrindhaban and Eden
through World's End and Armageddon,
through Purgatory, Limbo and a thousand uncouth Hells
before ascending through the gates of storm and flood
up the rainbow's sparkling steps,
avoiding a thousand illusory Heavens
with their smug, self-satisfied and quite-deluded Gods,
to the Glade of Undying Happiness
where I will continue to love you forever,
beginning with your eyelids,
losing myself again and again for a million rebirths
in your hair, your laughter, your smile, your fingertips,
the Unmanifest Spirit behind all mortal flesh,
the unity behind all sad and broken harmony,
the love of all love songs,
always unattainable, eternally refreshed,
the challenge and the test,
the Grail and the Quest,
the gold of all philosophy,
the best of the best.
