Fourteen

Sonnet XI, original

2011-10-13T14:27:00.000-07:00

Рисуй меня, художница,
Без этих глазах.
Они влюбились в тебе,
Но они не тебя любят.

Рисуй меня, художница,
Без этих губ.
Они никогда не поцеловали тебя
На прощание.

Рисуй меня, художница,
Без этого тела.
Оно вспомнит тебя тепло,
Но оно хочет забыть.

Ничего! Рисуй себя,
Художница, без меня.

Sonnet XXXI

2010-03-29T19:50:00.000-07:00

I am become energy,

Directionless energy,

Which,

In trying to go every way,

Stays still.

I am become hate,

Like thunder and lightning,

Flashing and tearing at the world,

Reckless,

Injured.

I am become sadness,

For I have lost something,

Something which cannot be recovered,

Which can never be found.

Sonnet XXX

2010-03-22T10:17:00.000-07:00

And in the peace that follows;

During that empty silence,

Can you believe in thunder?

Or in the hollow darkness,

Can you imagine lightning?

Are they becoming more real

In the spaces that come after?

Or are they merely phantoms,

Empty instants of power

That live for only a flash

Or for one echoing roar?

Do they - all but for a blink -

Mean nothing, or cease to be?

How pitiful their shows are, then.

Sonnet XXIX

2010-02-22T17:28:00.000-08:00

These seven numbers spell your name

And I remember every letter,

Etched into my mind like flame;

But every kiss was written better.

Every touch of lips on mine

And every breath of that shared air,

Every time I lost my mind

For you, is written in stone there.

And every time I saw that date,

Full knowing it was going to end -

That, I remember in cold hate

And this madness time can't mend.

And thinking back on the above,

I know I've no right to your love.

Sonnet XXVIII

2010-01-25T20:41:00.000-08:00

There, like clockwork it betrays its secrets,

Ever-whispering quietly in a language you don't know.

A scratching softly from the other room,

As a quill on paper bleeds secrets.

But from outside the house is impenetrable;

You look through all the walls and windows for a room...

Likewise the human heart is filled of quiet thoughts,

But for all our trying to hear them, it is impenetrable.

So when we sit in the quiet ticking,

We can but try to listen to our silent thoughts.

But ever the ticking grows, a rhythm for your heart to beat,

A heart that's ticking, tocking, ticking...

Despite all the secrets that you know,

It's those you don't that make your soul beat.

Sonnet XXVII

2010-01-25T20:34:00.000-08:00

There like a ghost it stands,

Pale and quiet in the silvery moonlight,

Like a specter only one can see -

Except we all see it, standing there.

In among the branches and the mist,

It plays love on invisible keys,

Like a forgotten pianist without a bench,

Or a tune that needs no hands to play it.

And we can do little but pursue it,

Always through the forests and the mist,

A phantom carrot on the end of a stick,

Always followed, never caught...

What good is pursuing an unreachable end,

Except that you can't help but do it?

Sonnet XXVI

2010-01-05T13:16:00.000-08:00

Why must the year start so cold?

There are so many warmer months.

We could have set it to begin in March,

Or in April, trees and flowers bright,

And a soft wind reminding us of life.

We could have started it anew in May,

Or perhaps in June, late though it is,

In warmth and bright sunlight,

Good tidings for a better year.

But instead we watch our breath as it fogs,

And the fireworks burn cold in the sky,

And our teeth chatter like sparklers.

Bright shows of light in the darkness,

Start the new year off, and snow.

Sonnet XXV

2009-12-22T11:48:00.000-08:00

M: The twenty-fifth on the twenty-second;

E: Christmas come early, or a gun jumped,

R: Tearing of paper, or cardboard, of plastic,

R: Peanuts falling to the floor in an avalanche,

Y: A tree slightly tilted and strung with lights.

C: A hug so long waited for, but still unopened.

H: Chocolates daily to drag you along until,

R: Until you get more lasting things,

I: Things that won't melt in your mouth...

S: Or shouldn't be put in your mouth to start with.

T: Coldness that follows, like a ghost trying to remember life,

M: A wind that sneaks through closing doors, always trying to remember heat.

A: A dusting of snow melted the next day at noon,

S: Except where the shadows keep it in your heart.

Sonnet XXIV

2009-12-17T16:12:00.000-08:00

It seems to me that we talk across a great distance,

Like a wide gap in the earth,

Or a span of nothing but nothing,

Or days and months and years of time.

And I am ashamed to admit this,

But I don't remember your face,

Or your voice,

Or your laughter.

So it seems we talk in shadows of shadows,

As if we were trying to speak in silence,

Or see in pitch darkness,

Or touch, only, with letters on a screen.

I remember you, but only in broad swaths of ideas,

A quickening of the pulse, an easy smile, a warm hand...

Sonnet XXIII

2009-12-01T17:22:00.000-08:00

You are like gravity, to me.

Like a magnet that I cannot resist,

You are my energy, my hope,

You are all that I desire in life.

Every word from your hands haunts me,

It ignites my soul into a fire-

A fire without direction, consuming all,

Leaving me restless, wanting you.

It's energy that defies silence,

But no sound can match its strength;

I am but a lodestone; you: North,

But still, I can't find you.

Give me a direction,

And let's meet sometime.

Sonnet XXII

2009-11-22T22:56:00.000-08:00

My dear beautiful mademoiselle,

It's strange, to write so much for you.

So many of these lines, as I look back,

So many are for you, because of you, about you.

I needn't tell you why; they explain themselves,

But you should know that I mean them,

Though I don't know what you'd think.

And this poem, like the others, is for you.

Yet I don't think you'll ever see it here;

In fact, I don't think you'll see any of these poems.

Why pen them, then, if not to show you, you ask?

Because my fingertips would shower ink if I stopped,

And because I love the bittersweetness of it all.

With sincerest love, your caped monsieur

Sonnet XXI

2009-11-22T22:49:00.000-08:00

Why is it that the mere mention of your name can make my heart beat so;
What rhythm do you dance, that drags me along in its wake so lightly?

If you exist always just outside of my reach, the figment that I follow,
Then how did I ever catch you, and how did I hold you in my arms?

Are you the manifestation of some strange otherworldly attraction,
Or are you the shape of gravity, claiming all that stray too near?

How is it that you change my brain’s chemistry in this way,
That whenever you’re gone I can’t think, but about you?

What did your lips say to mine, or your hand to mine,
That told them that no others can ever compare?

Who are you, O Siren singing on the edges,
To convey how I am to remember you?

Even if these lines got shorter,
I doubt I’d find your answer.

Sonnet XX

2009-10-17T12:27:00.000-07:00

O foul behemoth,

Than shan't be vanquished

Just by the sword of a single man.

Thou shan't be left bereft of all power:

Not simply because one man has left thee,

To pursue a life without thy sly manipulations.

But I!

I have left thee.

I have always hated thee,

But only now do I throw off thy yoke.

Though all the world stands against me in unison,

I shall stand alone, uncontrolled, unbroken.

There are few pleasures so rare and great

As that of deleting one's Facebook account.

Sonnet XIX

2009-10-15T20:30:00.000-07:00

It's not so hard to quit-

Much harder to stay,

Defy that tiny voice

That whispers.

You're not good enough,

It says, Worthless.

You should stop, now,

It tells you.

And the voice never fails;

Even as they argue against it,

It whispers.

It lies.

But you'll always worry in the darkness of the night:

It's not lying, is it?

Sonnet XVIII

2009-10-04T10:54:00.000-07:00

"The weather is broken.

Weather doesn't work."

He said, staring upwards,

At the passing clouds.

I have wondered, since,

How came it to be broken?

Can weather be broken,

Or is it only inconvenient?

"The clouds are dying,"

He said, "Sky is gray."

Night was falling, and

The clouds had passed.

Then, maybe, heartbreak

Is just night to our day?

Sonnet XVII

2009-10-01T21:19:00.000-07:00

I know how she feels about me.

I know how I feel about her.

Why so much mincing?

Why do we fence?

I could tell her,

In a rush of words,

And she could reply.

It would be awkward,

And exhilarating;

It would get the heart pumping,

And leave us both warmer.

It would be beautiful...

And it would be bittersweet.

Unrequited love always is.

Sonnet XVI

2009-08-29T21:27:00.000-07:00

It lacks everything that makes it tick,

All the gravity in the core of the body,

All the irresistable sensation, the slow dragging,

Like a moth to a lamp,

Trying to escape the inescapable.

Two syllables though,

Simple black scratches on a sheet,

Do they do it justice?

A glottal, a liquid, a nasal:

two vowels, stashed between.

But where's the urgency?

Where's the instinct,

The feral elementalism,

In "horny?"

Sonnet XV

2009-07-12T10:46:00.000-07:00

Letters can't save me

From the blankness of the page.

They're too little, too late;

Sparse symbols that lack meaning.

Pen to paper, fingers to keys,

They still find nothing.

A thousand mini pictures in a row

Don't say anything at all.

But when I search my core,

All I see is ink and shadows.

Words all bundled up in too-tight binding,

Waiting to explode in technicolor black.

So why, when I see that paper,

Do I lack anything to write there?

Sonnet XIV

2009-07-05T19:49:00.000-07:00

You know, if I had another chance,

I don't think I'd do anything the same.

But I can't think what I'd do different.

Maybe I'd just live this all over,

Because I'd rather make the same mistakes

Than go back and fix them afterwards.

But in the long run, I only think

That I made one mistake. And it was you.

Or, well, you know, it was leaving you.

All the same, I'm not sure who I am:

A broker of mediocrity, sure!

But otherwise I lack color. Hue.

So maybe I could live a brighter life.

But I think I'd leave you in that life, too.

Sonnet XIII

2009-06-20T18:33:00.000-07:00

They say that sleep is the cousin of death,

and I tend to agree with them on it.

For sleep, so close, so restful, so quiet,

can last for hours and yet not at all,

and can seem more real than reality,

or more absurd than one's most absurd thought.

But sleep is less permanent than death is,

and less effective, when one wants to rest.

Thus I have this question to ask of you,

since I'm tired beyond my nightly means:

perhaps, tonight, could I die a little,

and in the morning, be reawakened?

Please, don't grant one half and not the other;

they say that sleep is the cousin of death.

Sonnet XII

2009-06-18T18:39:00.000-07:00

If a poem falls in a forest,

And nobody's around to hear,

Then was it really written?

Or was it like the falling snow,

One moment there and then

-- gone?

Or was it like a cherished dream,

Remembered for a few moments

And then, in happiness, forgot?

Or was it like short-lived love,

Thought, brushed against, kissed,

And then left, black letters alone?

I doubt these lines are so fondly read,

To be so poetically forgotten.

Sonnet XI

2009-06-14T13:31:00.000-07:00

Draw me, artist girl,

Without these eyes.

They fell in love with you,

But they do not love you.

Draw me, artist girl,

Without these lips.

They never kissed you,

Not in farewell.

Draw me, artist girl,

Without this body.

It remembers you warmly,

But it wants to forget.

Nevermind - draw yourself,

Artist girl, without me.

Sonnet X

2009-06-14T13:28:00.001-07:00

I wanted to write about hate or anger,

But all I can think about is you:

And I'm not sure if I hate you for it,

Or if I hate only myself.

I wanted to write about fear and longing,

But the person I fear and long for most is you.

Oh, what I'd give to rip you from my chest!

Yet for all I've tried, I can't.

I wanted to write only about love,

But I can't write this word for you.

Anyone who knows what this is - for it is not love -

Would, like me, be hard-pressed to find the word.

And I wonder, in the shadows of the night, if you, too -

If you...also cannot write, for thinking of me.

Sonnet IX

2009-06-14T13:25:00.000-07:00

All the girls have melted away,

Away into shadows or dreams or thoughts

Or into the waiting arms of someone else,

Always while we watched, helpless.

So love: that word, that foolish word!,

Is a word our hearts should avoid,

Or else should break at the sound

Into a thousand frozen shards.

There used to be a girl in my arms,

Her warmth held tightly to mine,

But one day she melted away

And she left me alone,

Holding nothing but my own shoulders,

Freezing slowly into melancholy philosophies.

Sonnet VIII

2009-05-14T21:41:00.001-07:00

A musing then, before I sleep:

If this life is so subjective

Then don't we each have our own world?

When a human's born, does it mean

We've made a whole new blue planet,

One that's unlike any other?

When a human dies, does it mean

We've lost a possibility

To lead a life that's not our own?

I am sure that in many minds,

I am not who I really am:

And I want to see in their world.

But I'll die one day, old and frail,

Having seen only from my eyes.

Sonnet VII

2009-04-29T21:00:00.000-07:00

I had a dream last night,

That I was a shooting star.

I saw people down below,

Sitting in parks watching me.

They were wishing for things,

For things I couldn't grant.

But the thing they breathed,

It was chewing away at my stone.

And even as the oxygen ruined me,

I watched them in sadness:

There was so much they asked,

And so little I could do.

So I wished on myself,

That I could grant theirs.

Sonnet VI

2009-04-27T19:09:00.000-07:00

This is a sketch, no more, no less.

As I lay the ink down, I wonder:

What am I sketching, and why?

This might be a sketch of sound,

A sound so great it rocks the soul

And breaks glass cups and lenses.

This might be a sketch of touch,

So close and soft and yet so far -

Touch of surface on surface on surface.

This might be a sketch of taste,

Or smell: of something more real,

More direct, than all the others.

But it's not a sketch of sight,

Because I don't know how to write that.

Sonnet V

2009-04-17T22:46:00.000-07:00

The shattering of a glazed red-clay vase

On tiles made from terra cotta squares,

The final axe stroke on a green tree's limb:

A deep thud and the tender cracking veins.

Fingertips on the cover of a book

Or the sound when it flat-booms to the floor,

Footsteps rolling through an empty hallway

Declaring heels and feet with soulful notes.

The sound of a song without sheet music

Which can never be played the same way twice,

The soft hiss and pop of a warm campfire

Indulged in from the ring of light it sheds.

For all the beautiful things in the world,

I imagine silence is the loudest.

Sonnet IV

2009-04-16T21:31:00.000-07:00

Is there any better world than this one;

If I spent my lifetime with telescopes,

Could I find worlds more just, good, and fun,

Or would I die having harbored false hopes?

If I accept there are infinite spheres,

Then mustn't one by rule be more well made,

And is it worth adventuring from here

To find a single grain of sand in space?

And is that single world so much better

That it outweights the infinite "less thans,"

Can it earn this sonnet's every letter

Or would it be too far, and too alone?

I think, that if I had to choose an Earth,

I'd say the least troublesome one is Earth.

Sonnet III

2009-04-15T21:56:00.000-07:00

At what point do the chemicals combine

To change from gas and dust into people?

At what point does blind instinct become soul;

If we are more than the sum of our parts

Then please tell me: what more are we than that?

At what point is there difference between

The leg of a man and that of a chair?

Was there never similarity there,

Or will we die not knowing we're the same?

At what point does evolution become

Envy, gluttony, greed, lust, pride, sloth, wrath,

Kindness, charity, love, humility?

At what point do the lives of people stop

Looking so identical to poems?

Sonnet II

2009-04-14T14:18:00.000-07:00

When the west'ring sun falls below the world,

Then the day sheds its bright colors for night,

Then the windows grow incandescent light.

If the clouds their windward sails have furled

And if the stars of night like well-lit pearls

Shine, though their luminescence is but slight,

Those points of light make a grand skyward sight,

Then people below will sing night's carols.

And as the west'ring sun for you I feel,

Whose warmth grows only greater in the day,

And though my orbit of you isn't real,

And in the night my light loses its way,

I was never the one behind the wheel,

And I have failed my path to turn astray.

Sonnet I

2009-04-13T08:20:00.000-07:00

What does it mean, that you make my heart beat

So, that thoughts of you alone can do it?

Why is my rhythm so different from yours,

And is that why you can change my heart rate?

Are you an anti-heartattack, or are

You some strange manifestation of sound?

Life without you lacks music, lacks silence;

With whom do I weave my notes, if not you?

So tell me if our songs are discordant,

Or if they match: two instruments, one song.

But either way, the tune we make combined

Dictates the beat to which my soul is moved.

And when my heart beats faster, I know this:

I either love you dearly, or hate you.