The thorns wrap ’round my neck with silent might,
Their crimson touch a truth I cannot feign;
Cold waves rise up and cage my fading light,
A tempest stirring deep inside my pain.
Exhaustion wears my fingers to the bone,
I watch them fall like hours I can’t reclaim;
In quiet ruins, I lie all alone,
My body aging faster than my name.
A father sneers, a mother breaks in cries,
While others turn from all they think I lack;
They leave me drowning under quiet skies,
Still praying for a breath to pull me back.
Yet here I stay—beneath the storm I dread—
Still fighting off the weight inside my head.
Is there any life vibrating nigh more
Than of youthful love holding mutual hands--
Spirited love of hearts that founts from core
Of twosome exploring still old dreamlands?
That of an old couple I saw once when
On a seashore-- life’s tide waiting to die,
Still keen to walk together far as can,
A lifetime of journey’s end looms when nigh,
Geriatric hands too gnarled, yet clasping firm,
Their wrinkled visage still so radiant,
Hearts beating slow and pulse unsure to come,
Northward bound still their fondness’ gradient,
Let youthful love be a nigh bit selfish,
The old one has no angle to catch fish.
____________________________
Sonnet | 09.12.2008 | love, old, youthful
Note: An unusual sonnet, the first four lines, a quatrain, asks a question and then a Volta happens. All the remaining ten lines seek an answer, and the ending couplet seems to resolve.
I love thy grace, O wafting breeze,
Graceful ye live and die, how brave!
Ye seem to know, life’s lent on lease.
And O effervescent sea wave,
Now bubbly, now grave like a sage
To know well, life ends in a grave.
Yea, life is not to fudge, nor hedge,
Lived on knife’s edge, one day to part
On penning life’s last but one page.
It has little to take to heart,
Kiss goodbye ere part, take it cool,
Life’s not but a caravan’s cart.
Yet, life's no life, lived less than full,
O learn this rule from thy own school.
________________________
Musings | 01.09.2017 | life, school, tercet (enclosed)
Note: Tercet is a poem with three-line stanzas. Haiku, Senryu and Villanelle also fall in this category. In this tercet the first and third lines rhyme, while the middle one rhymes with the first and third lines of the next stanza, making it an enclosed tercet. But it also has structure of a sonnet. I wonder if a sonnet be made of four Terza Rima stanzas and a couplet wherein comes the Volta.
Like gardeners, their patient souls attend,
The broken soil where bitter seeds have lain.
And watch for any gentle sign to mend,
The barren ground, the aftermath of pain.
They are the looms where broken threads entwine,
Weaving new strength and purpose, line by line,
Repairing what the Fates have torn apart,
With quiet hands and a most hopeful heart.
Volta
They build the bridges that the floods destroy,
The architects of silence, calm, and grace;
They find for every conflict a new place,
Where weary nations can discover joy.
Their work's a light that makes the darkness cease,
The very, living, breathing soul of peace.
The present moment, like a bubble,
That shimmers on a gentle breeze;
It’s time on earth a fleeting trouble,
Among life’s deep and ancient trees.
It holds the past in soft reflection,
A mirror to our brief affection;
A future, yet unstressed and dim,
Upon its fragile, curving rim.
Volta
We watch its colors brightly turning,
A rainbow in the sun’s warm light;
A tiny, perfect, fragile sight,
That leaves the heart forever yearning.
Then with a sigh, it simply flies,
A silent pop before our eyes.
"Trap—for the ones who mistake affection for devotion, and fall for voices spun from smoke. He never promised me forever. But still, I stayed… oblivious. Drunk on words, blind in the dark, begging the silence to lie"
Then his words—
they don’t help.
They wrap around me like silk
only to choke.
Ancora una volta.
Again.
Again, I fall
for the way he speaks
like I matter.
Like I’m wanted.
But he’s my ladra—
my thief.
My freaking damn heart
is gone,
and he walks
like he never held it.
He smiles,
and I forget the pain.
He speaks,
and I forget the truth.
He lingers in my mind
like a lullaby
sung by a blade.
And I—
God, I still listen.
I still want.
Even knowing
he won’t reach back.
I dream of hands that never held me,
of eyes that never stayed.
Still, I wait,
like longing can rewrite
what silence never said.
He doesn't want me—
that’s the truth.
Even when his voice
is the sweetest trap
I’ve ever begged
to die in.
Sozinho no mar alheio,
Numa modesta canoa a remar,
A dar volta ao mundo inteiro
À procura de uma terra para ficar,
No meio de tempestades,
Ondas e abanões,
Tive tantas dificuldades,
Porém não cai por meros trovões,
Mas no fim cai,
Cai num naufrágio infeliz,
Mas ao cair, renasci,
Porém com uma cicatriz
Porém aqui estou, em uma nova pessoa,
À remar contra a maré,
Na minha modesta canoa,
Onde rezo e demonstro a minha fé
Ao longe já há uma ilha,
É a ilha das flores,
A ilha da maravilha,
Onde tenho todos os meus amores
E lá viverei em alegria,
Lá irei adormecer,
E irei escrever a minha poesia,
Até ao dia do meu morrer
To please Lady Muse, all my heart to bare,
I tried invoking her with chiselled verse,
That, the pure pleasure of my pen’s all hers,
Yet, left I was at blank paper to stare.
I sought some odd words archaic and rare,
And tried to paint the bleakest face of woes,
Which, often a desperate poet toes,
Fervent did I appeal that she be fair.
The words when came, came halting as if shy
And listless, I failed her bulwark to breach,
Nothing whatso worked and I knew not why,
I failed, the fount of words resource to reach,
I still coaxed my pen a new line to mint,
A voice whispered: hearken to your heart's hint.
_________________________________________
Sonnet | 03.11.2008 | poem
Poet’s note: There are times when no matter what you do, words desert your pen as this sonnet says. Notice, the Volta is hinted at the beginning of the sestet, but its high tide occurs only at the poem-ending couplet.
CONTRARY
A poem personified, it could be me
Yet to embrace analysis, I am averse
Words should flow at their own pace
Precise syllable counts are a disgrace
And a volta can be an empty purse
So, it’s a simple structure, you see
Is a stanza really more than a verse
It always depends on the poetic form
It one appeals to me, then I’m on it
Whether Scupham verse or a sonnet
But free verse conjours up a storm
And mixed case words are a curse
Apologies to all the purists out there
I never wanted to be so constrained
Rhyme is Okay, especially masculine
As slant rhymes should go in the bin
It loses something when explained
But I’ll try and write better, I swear
Costume
No fulgor
do domingo,
finda a visita
e o merecido
descanso,
agora,
Dona Dalva,
para a vida
abre o atalho.
Ela volta à cidade,
para bondade semear,
para com seus atos,
a vida de toda
a gente, melhorar.
Esperamos, Dona Dalva
Bem vinda.
Held you
in the light
of faded blue jean
memories
Starring down the contour of your thighs
kissing gently the dimples of your knees
starting to squeeze
your ankles too tight.
That’s when you threw me
off of you
‘round midnight
train
stopped playing
that deep blue music
we listened to
last night
stand
swore there would never be another chance
you would give me
to make it
“all-right”
Fighting each other
not letting go
Fine!
“Good-Bye”
we are through
go find another pair
that fits you
broke my zi-
pp
-er
now I’m stuck
Bad denim
tossed with socks
in a donation box.
The bondage be because
The seer is not same as what’s seen,
Because freedom’s on pause
That sees oneness— seer same as scene.
The singer’s not one with the song,
The dancer one with dance,
The poet with pen all along
For peak of performance.
If what be here cannot there go
It’s far from Infinite,
Nor what’s today, not tomorrow,
Never Eternal quite.
Liberation is that blessed place
Where oneness spreads all over space.
__________________________________
Sonnets |11.01.2023| spirituality, freedom, bondage
Poet’s note: Freedom means moksha, emancipation here. Here is a sonnet which is far from being traditional. It has an octave representing one viewpoint, Volta, and sestet giving the counterpoint with a sonnet-ending couplet. The lines have uneven length.
Me ame agora enquanto
Eu posso te amar de volta
Me ame agora quando, à vontade
Eu posso acender e apagar o fogo da lanterna
Me ame agora enquanto, novamente
Eu posso expirar, inspirar e respirar facilmente
Me ame agora enquanto
Eu posso ver sua beleza claramente
Não espere por amanhã ou outro dia
Quando eu não puder mais ver o arco-íris transitório
Quando eu não puder mais andar sozinho na calçada
Quando não consigo sentir o frescor da manhã
Não me ame apenas no Dia dos Namorados
Mas também quando eu erroneamente desvio
Me ame agora ou nunca
Para que eu possa ser abençoado e sortudo sem fim
Não importa o estado da minha mente ou meu humor
Não deixe de ser dócil e gentil
À mina alma, ao meu coração
E ao meu corpo, antes de me despedir.
P.S. Tradução de ' Love Me Now Or Never’.
Copyright © Fevereiro 2022, Hébert Logerie, Todos os direitos reservados
Hébert Logerie é autor de várias coleções de poesia.
Frutos
Qual é o fruto
de um
bom coração?
Só a colheita
mais bela
e adequada
das pessoas
à sua volta:
– sabedoria,
tranquilidade,
destemor
e liberdade
para fazer
sempre
mais e mais.
Instante
Meses vão em um ano
ou 1 instante!
Importa pouco,
o dia nunca volta,
só reconhece
o lugar do instante.
Na vida
ou nos negócios
só o instante
em que o pensamos
para agir certo.
Façamos já;
neste instante
e sempre.
um pouco a mais.
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