Saturday, 21 December 2013

"Poems journey around the world"




"For Joanne Arnott, the poet, who wrote: I do hope that you feel inspired, as i do, by the pleasure of a poetry exchange across the miles."



Not All Words Are Birds

                   I

I wrote a poem
With crimson ink
On a piece of paper
In turquoise blue
And went to the window
And opened it wide
To welcome the morning sun
Of a serene spring sky.

     
Suddenly,
               before my eyes,
There appeared
                      a flock of birds,
With their plumage
                             of rainbow colours,
Circling,
              circling,
                          in a rhythmic motion,
As if performing a ritual
Of a mystical cosmic dance,
And by reflecting the rays of light,
They created something like a micro-image
Of a supernova;
 And, after
              some long moments
                                  of self-manifestation,
They flew away,
                        and out of my sight.


I returned to my desk,
To read once more
My new finished poem,
But,
        to my wonderment,
The crimson words had disappeared,
And the blue paper
Had turned to white.

                   II

It was the sunset
Of a mid-autumn day,
And the blue sky of the horizon
Had begun to fade into a burning crimson,
Setting the windowpanes on flame.


On my desk
A piece of blank paper
                             in turquoise blue
Was looking expectantly at me,
And on its right side
My black pen,
Filled with crimson ink, 
Was left in boredom of silence,
But the poem I had in my mind
Suddenly burned out
And was lost in oblivion.


The flaming radiance of the setting sun
In the receptive,
                       gleeful eyes
                                        of the window,
Mysteriously urged me to walk over
And watch the magic
                             of light
                                       and air
                                                and motion,
But what I saw,
                       I think,
                             was a visual message
From the God Unknown,
The Almighty Poet,
Whose one and only poem
                             has been Himself,
Manifested in His creation of Life:

                   III

In the fiery light
Of the glowing gold
                             of the setting sun,
Within the clear range of my sight,
It was my long disappeared flock
Of the rainbow coloured birds,
In their glorious flight,
Returning from an unknown journey,
Each bird of the flock, now
Mysteriously,
                   accompanied by one bird
From a flock of someone else’s
Not in the same rainbow colour,
But in plain turquoise blue.

They circled so close to my window
That for a moment I felt
I was a mirror held
To the firmament of peace and serenity.
Oh, how much more beautiful
                                       would a rainbow seem,
If it could appear
In a turquoise blue sky!

                   IV

After circling seven times
                             in front of my eyes,
My extended flock of birds
Suddenly flew away,
And disappeared again.

Poems journey around the world
And bring more poems with them,
Because poets have always been
The scattered citizens of one eternal nation.

Mahmud Kianush
21 October 2013



A poem for Mahmud Kianush




Pensive and beyond

In a quiet house
In a quiet room (in a room where music plays)
In a quiet heart (in a tumultuous busy crossroads)
In a quiet moment (in a moment poised at the top of the wave)
In a quiet pen (in a pensive eye within a hurricane)
In a quiet sweep of pen on page (in a sweeping move from never was to fully made)

The scritchscritchscritch (sound of rich colours released in the world)
The house or room, window or page, poem or bird (visited and revisited, flocks and migrations)
The gift (from the well of plenty)
The gift (from the unseen)
The gift (of return, from that which was freely given)
The gift (some birds are angels)

Joanne Arnott

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