#asingleflame

I came down from the mountain’s crown to wed the river’s daughter.

The river leapt to hear of this, and thrashed its foamy waters.

The old man coughed, and asked of me, Why stir you so my daughters? they’ll not assent to you, or any son of earthly father! Who are you, to cause such waves to stir about my daughters?

I am a king, though kingdoms fall, and mine but newly risen. I have not come for glory’s sake, nor do I come unbidden. At my gate a single lily leaf of tiger’s stripe was hidden. And I come now to claim the bride that is nearest to my vision.

Be gone! O flesh, of earth and stone, that makes mud of clear water. Too grand for you is the river’s throne, too fair and fine its daughters.

-

I came again out of mountain ken, and sought the lily daughter, but banks were then as walls to me, and barred the river’s daughter. But ever could I hear the song of lilies in the water.

I called aloud the river’s name, awaking son and daughter, while all the kin for miles around beheld the raging water. I thought to swim, and lilies hearing, I leapt full-length in the rushing rearing.

I woke at length in tender arms, and the hand on my head was cool. but the need to breathe prevailed on me, and I let go the water-jewel.

I woke again on the river’s bank, a sodden, sorry fool.

-

But when I come from the mountain’s drum, and the ice-peaks weep for longing, then do I see in the flowing streams the tiger-lily blooming.

And when I tread on the mountain’s head, and see the ocean’s gleaming, I think that I will end in you, as you began in me.

-

So then made I a final ride, the river’s daughter at my side. Disdaining fate and father’s law, I took on the beach a water-bride, and embracing her current, swept out in the tide

The cool wind -storm herald- the tree crowns did christen, tugging my soul, bidding me listen

to the summer triumphant in the song of bright feathers, and the melody simple in the chords of the weather.

Sky-mounted kingdoms have passed overhead, and the river they travel is the ocean's warm breath;

the lowest unknown is a man's humble head.

Through firmament vast and swift and clear, a wanderer tarries, for a moment held dear-

It is possible to drown in the space between people.

I often get lost… waiting.

It is not difficult to swim, and the currents are mild.

Islands pass in the night, sacred and distant.

In the stillness, a hand brushes mine!

But the wrist slips away, and is gone to drift again.

This cannot be my ocean, rather it is all oceans, and I a thing in the midst..

So then, I stretch out my hands-

-the water is my embrace.

I am the ocean; seeking myself, greeting myself when we pass- as we must; dividing myself with mourning.

We will pass again, you and I.

In fervent wish and burning prayer to the nameless saints of here or there, to simple things, and wishing rings, and my fingers tangled in your hair.

Fair maiden, dare to take my hand- or bolder still, to understand the whispers of this misty grove, the lover’s prayer, the heart’s demand.

Lips as hands and pilgrims we, but you will not my lover be, for try I might, a simple man cannot the far off future see.

Cast aside your earthly fears, they have no place or purpose here, our prayers will be met with scorn if you do not make your meaning clear.

Between the peaks of loving and longing, the depths of distraught and despair, exists a wondrous country that I never knew was there.

It may be just the gold in my eye that brightens the fields and reddens the sky, but is that not her hand beside mine? her cheeks which fill with lovely blush, when I dare her hand with mine to brush?

No torrent waits upon my head, no chasm yaws to threaten my tread. Strange repose is mine, for once, and I do not fear for its end.

She is not mine, but she is here, and though I make no speeches, I make a study of this perfect woman, and the wisdom that it teaches.

I am the deep breath after the plunge,

the sigh that falls forth when you just can’t-

Explain.

I am the filth that time turns to pearl,

and those who were not there will worship themselves in my name.

I am the sultan of bad ideas,

of words not meant, and souls not saved.

I am the angel of praise and malfeasance.

I am the lover that hates what it loves,

that breaks what it holds,

and never lets go.

I am the righteousness, I am the truth.

Hell hath no fury like gilded youth.

I am the oxygen, I am the drug,

I am the cigarette smoke in your lungs.

I am the jumper in need of a shove.

I am pretension (see above)

I am the poem, and this is the end.

Why does no-one ever stop at the end?