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Grisha Buhar Poem
Earthen songs! from handsome angel throngs, opsoletus
Intervals and spells of the scope of temporal rondure,
A surging of the populus in singulari confluentia
So the book does diagram guthan, guð, and god,
Khute gaia, of poured earth, where legend sleeps
The burial dunes of Zeus, Aether, Erebus, and Chaos
Seasons advance with a tempering of wind’s instruments,
Sweltering bloom to hyperborean calm of frozen seed
Daughters and sons! from cildhama, fruit of the womb
Roaming deeds, of sin and samaritan, per omne spatium
Space of continental breadth or old borough border rings
Century to century in continuo, each end to seamless end
non vigilemus et dormimus in aeternum, of briefest history,
We do not speak of ages dissolved in lights of admiration
Stygian time cannot lie, and there will be other Dark Ages
We now originate and architect machines from the earth
Greater eyes and senses than what natura dedit nobis
What have we committed that we can conceivably survive?
nihil est quod in dulcedinem originis non evanescatin,
There is nothing that does not fade into the sweetness of its origin.
Copyright © Grisha Buhar | Year Posted 2022
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Grisha Buhar Poem
Adam's rib, but a simple wand
in the fingers of YHWH,
And fair Eve, the summoned Spell
of this earthen fashioned Dust.
As such, these were the roots
sculpted from towering Mythos;
Finding a rapturous Vienna Genesis:
sweet river of olden scripts,
And yet the Movements of Universe,
still cloaked in geometries unknown.
Copyright © Grisha Buhar | Year Posted 2023
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Grisha Buhar Poem
And there, painted
and playing in sweetest frame
is the timeless province.
There, suspended
by the arches of axiom,
with sputtering brushes
of wielded coherent structure.
I drown upon spearing fear
in the devilish qualm,
splintered to scattered scree
upon the wuthering face
of this old, roaming sphere:
in continuous form
and bristling invariance.
Here is one soul
stripped of fire's bite.
I have my tools at hand,
extensions of my form;
yet the tendons are emblazoned,
threatening to break
upon the simplest gesture.
I dare to say
that I do not live:
I am suspended in a desert
where life once drifted.
I once was electing Truth
but am now spirited into hushing,
principled in my lightened travels.
Copyright © Grisha Buhar | Year Posted 2023
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Grisha Buhar Poem
Lover of the howling derecho
on the vast welkin shore,
Carrying the aromatic mists
of sweetest petrichor;
How it strikes! as the willowy blade
of an ambrosial steel sword,
Into the resting sheath
of the game's flooded board.
Copyright © Grisha Buhar | Year Posted 2023
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Grisha Buhar Poem
This, as it is, stripped and reduced - undone by
raging, torrential, opened senses;
To its elemental couplings of unbridled pieces.
Here is life, in towering, brindled expanse, that
swallows whole all of the lightest and darkest;
Peaks, valleys, and channels of odds and uncertainty.
Winds of feathering, vast plumes encircling and spearing
the seams of a freshly illuminated globe,
Seen and unseen - written and unwritten - paths into
the heart of nature's famous mists.
Freedom's mark switches starkly upon the
wilding wind's tide,
Twain with all outstretched surfaces born
from the archaic temporal.
There is a champaign of silence - a voiceless giantess -
in the middle of the air,
Where no thread or whisper of life subsists or waltzes.
At end of day, tints and tones - hues and colourings -
of shadowed beauty in the envisaged, pale streams.
From the trenchant, whetted rim of great stone playing
in the welkin court - of the darkling, stygian,
caliginous heavens,
Escorted to the black marble stretch by keen pinnings
of white luminaries.
At a glancing, the purling and spouting rivers of space,
bearing the arks of souls through the ages,
And silent, its moving shapes and great names.
Continental creatures of flaming greens
and of darkened chains - withholding ripened,
blossoming flames in the deep;
Mountains, valleys, and oceans, a blanketing
of every stretch and shade.
Hiding - closed and minute - the cultures, voices,
and histories marked in time by empire and ruin;
Of maximum and minimum - of greatest perennial,
cyclical depths.
Split and hewn to fragmentary slippings - the ends
of briefest moments of waking and sleeping mind.
Copyright © Grisha Buhar | Year Posted 2023
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Grisha Buhar Poem
I lay my dark and spiraled finger
against pure and corded wildwood,
In the wailing current
of the rich wheels of wilderness,
Before the sonant vesper
of dreaming by a worshiping colt,
Shielded from sheaths of stone
by a tree marked in enfolding moss;
The flashing tongues of rolling air
in fluent, black, and breathing flesh,
Smoking in its morning cloak
of great, weaving draperies of fog:
Steeled ink, lashed still and damp
against the awning jaws of dawn.
And from the deep comes soaring
the melody of waters roaring,
Suspended in elephantine glory,
in masterly paintings of old quarry.
Copyright © Grisha Buhar | Year Posted 2024
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