— Of Wind, Longing, and the Privilege of Touch—
O, that I were the mild vespertine air,
that steals through jasmine when the day is done,
and, fragrance-laden, wander'd everywhere
to find her face before the sinking sun;
I'd pass where rain lies dark upon the stone,
and draw the tellurian breath of earth,
then lose myself where roses bloom alone
and breathe their secret back to fragrant birth;
I'd find the hollow sleeping by her cheek,
where one loose filament trembles in the air,
and, being less than silence, scarcely speak,
yet feel her pulse make all the heavens bare;
And should her lips breathe softly, “Who hath been?”—
I'd be the wind... and love her all unseen.
The blue sky is not heaven
It's not the same thing at all
Dear friends.
We often speak of the firmament of yesteryear
By day, the sky is dazzling like an etiolated flower
Dear friends.
Defying gravity is to soar into the heavens
Where at night, stars and asteroids are numerous
It's the dream, it's imaginary impulses
Where we are stunned, amazed and silent.
We are fascinated by extraordinary tricks
The sky isn't really blue, it's an illusion
Man has a way of making inventions
To satisfy his tellurian and planetary curiosities.
P.S. Translation of” Le Ciel Bleu” by Hébert Logerie.
Copyright © September 2022, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poetry.
I desire you so much that
when one day turn
dust, I will visit your
dust to create
mounds of powder
around...
It will be a love
tellurian ...
telluric
love !
Here let me rest a little while--
where the soil is lush and yielding,
where the trees reach out
in one magnificent embrace
of mother earth, silent teachers
of an archetypal love that history
could not disclose.
Here let me co-create
to meet consanguine shadows rising
from maternal clay--here in the heartland
where my dust congealed.,
where the breath is shared
again, again.
Moss invades the headstones;
my fingers trace the names,
while souls conjoin and know
that first spark birthed within the cave
burned hotter still in pilgrims' breasts,
still spreads its heat across a continent,
flaming in the eyes of youth,
smoldering upon the page's edge
and poised to leap and dance
upon the open hearth,
or to destroy.
Enter, solitude,
and in that place where roots descend,
reach forth as tendrils intertwining
with the past, there grows
a new tellurian peace
to trace the sun, earthbound
and free, still calling
from the ground to sons unborn,
"Remember me."
~
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