|
Details |
Walter W. Safar Poem
I looked into the face of my late mother,
and from her pure, placable eyes
I saw the light
reflected
from the paradise hearth.
I am kneeling beside her deathbed,
ardently looking at the sky, praying to the
guardian angel
to lend its wings to the soul that fell asleep,
so it would
fly into the sky, too.
But the coffin is closing,
and the night wind, a sullen and very austere
guardian,
wakes in his watchtower,
as if tending to a hungry death.
I held my hand upon her heart,
and a silent tear slid onto her
face,
sparkling like the morning dew.
In my chest, my heart is beating so coldly.
In this state, some higher Invisible hand
could have animated me
to set my sight at the
sky;
to set my hope at the
sky
where we shall meet.
© Walter William Safar 2010
Copyright © Walter W. Safar | Year Posted 2012
|
Details |
Walter W. Safar Poem
SILVER STAR
I have long since lost Hope,
because my paths are so endlessly long and aimless,
as if sculpted out of my restless spirit
in the long nights of reverie.
You know, Lord... I used to have my Hope.
It was so nice to stand next to the Christmas tree
with my mother,
and look at its proud top,
where our silver star shone,
my favorite Hope.
To me, a child who never decorated his own tree,
it was the biggest Christmas tree in the world,
and the brightest star beyond the heavenly dome.
Each night before Christmas we would return to the same place
with the same desire and faith,
until our terrible companions, the long, cold nights
have invoked death
and stolen my mother.
I am motionlessly standing and staring into this dark, cold night,
like an avenger yearning for revenge,
and a thin woman in rags is passing me by,
whispering warm words into a child's frozen ear.
The child is looking up with the same gaze
like I did when my mother used to show me the silver star,
whispering into my frozen ear
that someday I shall touch that silver star too,
silvering all the orphanages of this dark world.
Her warm words are still crossing my mind:
„Son, always stand on your toes and look up...
and you shall touch your star!“
My eyes have long since stopped sparkling
and they don't look up.
They used to be the big, bright eyes of a child,
that shone in the dark,
like two young embers that were just set afire,
but now... oh, now my eyes are but burnt out embers
in the squeezing fist of the cold world.
You know, Lord, how much I wanted to stand on my toes
and look up,
but life always threw me back to my knees.
I admit that I haven't been standing on my toes for a long time,
but I am not kneeling, either,
I am only looking down
into the dark reflections of people's characters,
and my Hope is once again so far away,
as if it's afraid of my faithful squire,
which is standing at the bottom of the silky net,
not like a flym
but like a master of many a fly big and small,
because Death has that justified purpose
to come for its flies regardless of their size.
I am not looking at death like a fugitive,
but a penitent man,
who wants just another chance.
How strange it is, Lord,
that even a man abandoned by Hope wants his chance.
Yes, Lord, I admit
that I would like to stand on my toes once more,
below the biggest Christmas tree in the world,
and touch our silver star.
©Walter William Safar
Copyright © Walter W. Safar | Year Posted 2011
|
Details |
Walter W. Safar Poem
THE STATIONERY BOY
His little dark street
Is at home in the silky cobweb;
His little dark street
Is only loud in the missionaries’ prayers,
It elicits a gaze in very few people,
It is but an uninvited guest to life.
The stationery boy hands out his beautiful fliers,
Like a messenger of his little dark street.
In his big clear eyes a tear is born,
Not as an accusation,
But as wonderful love,
His heart is young and full of hopes
That someday his big silent tear
Shall drop onto someone’s palm.
A new day is born in his wonderful spirit,
Perhaps somewhat cold and strange,
But a new day, still.
Oh powerful destiny, listen to your unloved son,
Wake up the sleeping star;
Wake up the sleeping sun;
Wake up the sleeping hearts of men,
So that the new day may be a friend to your unloved son.
In the inaudible shadows, he has his faithful listeners,
In death he has a faithful visitor,
His young beautiful eyes are more familiar with death than life.
When so many happy children gather around the city’s Christmas tree,
His dear young heart is loudly beating into the deaf nights,
Like a silver bell,
So that his small, dark home would be alight with a gaze.
When the wonderful northern wind brings
Happy children’s voices from afar,
Like a modest Christmas gift,
The stationery boy is building his little kingdom of happiness
In his vivid imagination,
His days and nights may be cold and dark,
But his imagination is bright and completely wonderful,
It shines in the darkness like an angel.
His silver bell is ringing beyond the heavenly dome.
If you want to show a real angel to your kid,
Hurry towards that little dark street,
And you might be lucky enough to see the stationery boy
Before he gets his silver wings.
©Walter William Safar
Copyright © Walter W. Safar | Year Posted 2011
|
Details |
Walter W. Safar Poem
LIGHT AND LOVE
You covered your mourning face with a black veil.
They say that you are sad,
so sad
that the birds no longer sing next to the window
where we used to dream of
freedom
which was so vividly reflected in the eyes of the birds
who found their little home
in the buds of your wild roses.
Forgive me, my dear,
for not being with You now.
I know that your mourning veil is weaved from sorrow
and watered by salty
tears.
My golden one, don't give our love slip away
into night's embrace,
throw away your mourning veil into the night's embrace,
let a glowing star from the sky shine on our love,
because light cannot be against love,
light must be for love,
because it doesn't harden hearts,
but soften them;
Because it does not battle like darkness,
but comes into hearts like a dove.
© 2010 Walter William Safar
Copyright © Walter W. Safar | Year Posted 2011
|
Details |
Walter W. Safar Poem
In a dreamlit night, I looked at a star
Like a bird without a flock.
I do not want to call solitude
What it is,
Because there are other flockless birds
Somewhere in the distance.
Yes, my friend,
We do not have to see each other
To know each other,
Because you cannot see solitude,
Yet you still know it;
When solitude wants you,
Look upon a star
And you will know that you are not alone,
Because many a gaze is friendly with the star;
When you pass a flower,
Know that it is your friend too,
Because you did not thread upon it.
When you see a bird in a cage,
Let it loose,
Because it sings its most beautiful song
When it's free;
Yes, my friend,
Friendship is like freedom,
Boundless and limitless,
Like space in human thoughts;
When a raindrop falls on your palm,
Know that it fell on the palms on many
Like a young friend;
When sorrow comes knocking at your door,
Speaking of the world's injustice,
Know that you are not alone,
Because my heart beats
Just like yours;
When the wind whispers to you
About its thousand years of wandering
And loneliness,
Know that you are not alone,
Because it whispers to me too.
Yes, my distant friend,
Solitude is not ugly
If it isn't forced upon you,
Just like friendship
Isn't friendship
If it is forced upon you.
Wonderful is the friendship
Linked by spontaneity
Like a bird's link to freedom;
Wonderful is the friendship
Linked by space
And nature;
Yes, my distant friend,
We do not have to see each other
To know each other,
Because if we do not meet during our lives,
Our souls will doubtlessly
Meet in the white heavenly fields.
©Walter William Safar
Copyright © Walter W. Safar | Year Posted 2012
|
Details |
Walter W. Safar Poem
SILVER TEARS
You say that you have long since
turned off all the lights but one,
the light beneath which
I have kissed you
while pearly dew glittered
all around us,
a breeze was blowing,
and the birds were not silent,
but singing at the top of their lungs.
You say that you have long since
turned off all the lights but one,
beyond which everything was freshened
with tears gone by,
which still shine
outside the door of the old house
like fairy silver tears.
When you think you're alone,
know that a calm person
is still walking towards your home
with calm and measured steps,
the person of your poet's
barefoot solitude.
A long, long time has passed
since we used to see each other often,
and since all the lights were glowing
on earth
and in the skies,
and since the moon was,
with its expression of dominance,
power
and enchantment,
self-consciously sitting up there
- surrounded by the stars
that give him the eternal magic of youth –
and watching
the fairy silver tears
sliding down your face,
as if you were the saddest woman
under the heavenly dome.
You say that you have long since
turned off all the lights but one,
beyond which love was
so impatient and capricious,
in the desire
to go from hand
to hand
of all those who are in love
around the world,
so they, too, would feel the love
I feel for you.
© Walter William Safar
Copyright © Walter W. Safar | Year Posted 2011
|
Details |
Walter W. Safar Poem
STRAW MAN
The straw man guards a golden field,
His eyes are empty, like its head,
A golden heart shines in his chest. Whose hand
had put this golden heart into his chest?
Can this heart put his body into motion?
This is what the crow is thinking about, and only the wind knows
the whole truth, that the girl with the golden hair
sat at the feet of the straw man,
waiting for the fairy to promise her
that she shall provide a heart for the straw man.
Like a man made of flesh and blood,
he loves it when the wind fondles his face,
and even more when the girl with the golden hair
is sewing a green shirt made of grass leaves,
so that someone might love him too;
When the sky darkens,
when the dark clouds come down like a led curtain
(to bring our story to an end) the straw man
is standing alone in the golden field, waiting for his death.
He opens his mouth, but all that comes out of it is silence...
treacherous silence.
I cannot hear him, I don't know his thoughts,
(after all, how can an empty head bear a thought?),
but I know for certain that he can feel, and I know what he feels,
I know what he wants:
For me to take him away
into distant golden deserts,
where the sun is eternally warming;
Where there are no crows to pick his eyes,
where there is no thunder and lightning, just the golden sun
and the girl with the golden hair. It is late
(I cannot save him, being just a poet outside the story),
the fireball is coming down from the sky
to burn the straw man.
©Walter William Safar
Copyright © Walter W. Safar | Year Posted 2011
|
Details |
Walter W. Safar Poem
MY HOMELAND
People say that a man without a homeland
is a dry tree without roots,
but I tell you:
"I do not want to be a heartless,
soulless,
and mindless tool.
To a poet, such a homeland
is a prison and violent submission.
The poem is my homeland,
and a verse is mankind."
The world wonders:
"What does a poem mean to a poet,
is a poet equally important to you
like a homeland?"
I believe in only one homeland.
In the invisible one we build
on our thoughts and our love
all by ourselves and in ourselves.
The poem is always stronger than any notion.
I tell you:
"Tomorrow, the day after,
tens, hundreds, thousands of
poems
shall bloom here, in this shelf,
and each of them shall be dear to me
like the first one."
And I know, someday,
somewhere, sometime,
someone shall pull out that shelf,
and I will know that this poem shall
travel
and travel...
until She eventually finds it,
because, the true and only
homeland
of the human heart is
love.
Walter William Safar ©
Copyright © Walter W. Safar | Year Posted 2011
|
Details |
Walter W. Safar Poem
THE WIND, THE FIR AND THE ROSE
While the wind walks up and down the village,
all the time at the same speed,
I looked at that fir,
bent down to the ground by the wind.
It must be very, very old,
but it's still so beautiful and
dignified.
And the wind, the prince of Freedom,
looked at the wild rose
and started to caress her red face,
asking her
to agree
that he might propose to her
to get engaged.
The rose suspiciously listened to it
bending its head a little from time
to time.
Now the wind bends the fir tree to the ground again,
so it might say a few words on his behalf,
and the fir tree started fondling the face of that village beauty
with a motherly tenderness,
showering drops of a bygone rain all around her,
- glistening on her noble face like pearly dew -
so that the rose might have its grace as a dowry,
and the rose majestically nodded to the
prince of Freedom,
like a princess of love,
agreeing to become the princess of Freedom.
And I thought:
“If men could only bend to the ground so easily,
like a fir tree,
there would be more love left for all of us.”
© 2010 Walter William Safar
Copyright © Walter W. Safar | Year Posted 2011
|
Details |
Walter W. Safar Poem
WITHOUT HOPE
I never meant to call for hunger,
but it calls for me,
endlessly faithfull and accursedly hones,
it leads me,
like any given day,
into the soup kitchen of the darkest street in the world.
Everything around me is so unreal,
the smiling faces of those who pass by,
the full restaurants spreading the scent of food,
and the rustle of money bills, so unknown to me.
To many people, this is the brightest street in the world,
but it is so painfully cold and dark ti me.
I feel like a wingless fly in the silky home
of the biggest spider of the world when I walk it.
Outside, the sun is gildening the leaden faces of those who pass by,
those who headlessly chase after their own bright dreams,
and it is so dark inside,
yes, Lord, how could a soup kitchen be bright,
when its most frequent visitor is poverty.
The breath of hopelessness spreads around me,
and of horrible apathy,
as if I entered a coffin
that even death does not want to enter,
but I am not afraid that their hopelessness might kill my hope,
because it died long ago.
It's all the same in this coffin of human hopes,
the same poverty, the same food, the same nuns,
the same thick opaque glass
that keeps gazes from mixing,
there's only less homeless people,
because the long cold nights do not forgive poverty,
and while I drag my heavy leaden legs
towards the altar of my shame,
I can hear an unusually lively young voice,
a straying child singing a lullaby to its teddy bear.
Oh, Lord, can poverty be so hungry
as to even take away dignity from such a young being?
I am looking into these big, bright turquoise eyes of a child,
so dignifiedly spreading hope around him.
Nothing about him or within him
reveals that he is a victim of recession,
that he has lost his father and mother early.
Even though a big pearly tear
slid into his empty plate, spreading the echo of endless pain,
he is still patiently waiting for his piece of bread
hard as flintstone.
I am hiding from his gaze,
fearing that my apathy and hopelessness
might kill his hope.
You know, Lord, that I would give everything
to help this dear little being,
but how can a hopeless man help him?
If my help is the escape
and the hiding of my own inability and hopelessness,
I agree to remain hungry,
because there is no desire left in me to fight dilemmas,
because I have long since been without hope,
and so it is time for me to return
to my little home without light and hope,
into my little cardboard home
at the bottom of the old 134th street cemetery.
©Walter William Safar
Copyright © Walter W. Safar | Year Posted 2011
|
|