juno verse

action holds the indictment…
jottings of a poem, hardly of this world
immeasurable, without censor,
an unexplained gesture these words on a page
we like one and not the other
…actions create infirmity.

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

- e.e. cummings

via artemisdreaming 

(via aliaena)

Snowfall creates a quiet
Even road noise damped,
But sound travels slower
Than light, by about half a sky.
Dog’s by the door,
It’s cold out here you know,
Even he wonders about me
Sometimes.

The force of a paperwhite’s
Fragile pale flower
Alone, imperial stalk
And sadness so sour
In this solitary stance
With control thrown afar
Or merely, a stiffness 
In the chilly wind.

It too has its arms
Of green that embrace
A sameness of form
In a mirror displaced,
As if the one can be all
And the flower pronounce
Every truth that will call
An end to it.

When the season turns
And the green cloak is gone
And little flower burns
With lack of power,
It seems to matter little
An invisible course we follow
The cat under the moon 
On his fiddle.

LynnChakoian January 13, 2012

Christmas eve

Clouds reflecting light indistinct
from the setting sun or rising moon
cannot be said and if memory serves
(not usually the case) there 
is no internal source in that wispy heaven.
And God posed with chalice on some
high-off place, a throne or golden chariot
that fires like blossoms as daylight breaks,
a show, in mime, where humility is placed.
Time counted in the falling of the star
as arbitrary as a night descending,
we don’t mark these creased sheets
spreading with multicolored flourishes.
Humanity, so rich in part, to reduce
to rubble our gathering wishes,
frail the meager uses of 
that keyboard blasting pipes through fissures,
figuring of the heart.

LynnChakoian, January 6, 2012