The sound of the sea pulls me deeper and deeper into the deepest sleep,
drawing me down into deeper dreams.
Slowly.
Drowning.
Back and forth all night, the sea sighs and mists my windows
and turns with the drag of the tide.
I rise with the surf and the light.
~
What I Saw in the Fairylands of Wales
~
I was sitting knitting when I dropped a wayward stitch,
a stitch in the web of the worlds.
I saw a one-eyed fish and signs of sudden rain.
I saw the wren new-washed.
I saw hills that were cast by giants.
I walked through warring trees
and heard the starling speak.
I followed him through twisting streets
where all the lights were out.
We left salt at ever house,
to exalt the rising sea and summon subtler dreams.
Then the Wonderchild stepped out holding a burning lance.
He swore to the sinking sun and the valleys filled with light.
The river-crossings and wells swelled with sparking water.
He refused to be baptised and vanished into the wood.
I stood there watching, wishing I’d caught his glance.
© A.Chakir 2023
Todays prompt was to read a poem in a language you are not too familiar with (so that basically you don’t understand it) and then, just from the sound of it write a poem of your own – I did two from French and Portuguese
Alone in the Dark
I contemplate my foolishness baffled by
the contrast of smoke and pure air
the leaves rustle outside my window
a piano is playing next door
I hear a tender tune of meetings in this moment
a song of the night, the earth
the dance of eternal stars,
inexorably close to my heart
The night again! after days of comedy
with no laughter, the sadness, my sickness
can’t be cured by the beautiful flowers.
The universe responds, but I cannot subsist
the days repeat and repeat, shouting encore.
My life is only sadness as I sit here alone in the dark.
Love is urgent
The urgencies of love
made me embark
on rough seas
the urgencies of desperate love
solid, square and cruel
bring my lament to the waves,
crashing around my feet
it’s urgent, it’s all going by too fast
so many kisses I sought in the cornfields
looking for roses and rivers
and open clear days
is my heart so impure
that I can’t find the light?
This love is urgent.
I came to the estuary
and now I am lost in the sea
© A.Chakir 2023
On the footpath by the sea
the tourists come and go.
the summer flowers gleam,
salt breezes softly blow.
On the footpath by the sea
the children run and play.
Pirate games and treasure maps
sweep their hours away.
On the footpath by the sea
tadpoles swim in drying streams,
the dogs lap all the puddles up
while walkers eat ice-creams.
On the footpath by the sea
here come the volunteers
to clear away the plastic
and gather mermaids tears.
the boats rock at their moorings
i can smell the sun on your skin
and all night the sea salt stays
in the tangles of your hair
i stroke the curve of your near thigh
as the morning sun rises
i await your opening eyes
the clouds are moving fast above
clearing to blue skies, pale horizons,
a distant curve stretched water-wide,
and still you lay in dreams,
lulled by the waves of sleep,
while I dream myself wide awake
Thunder crashing,
lightening flashing,
people dashing for cover,
the rain so heavy
the road is a running river.
In passing a shop
a perfume wafts out from a doorway
and carries me straight into summer,
coconut oil and vanilla,
with undernotes of soft almond.
My mind’s eye drifts to the margin
where rubbery ribbons of seaweed
lay stranded in foam and soft ripples.
The damp sand is firmer and darker.
The sea has been rough.
Dark violet clouds in the dove grey sky
are gradually clearing.
The sun blazes out in a dazzle,
bouncing on glittering water.
The salt air
and the sand in my hair
make it feel sticky and thicker
Hot sun dries the puddles of rain
on steaming hot tarmac
and I’m back in the town again,
longing for crisp juicy peppers,
freshly cut cucumber flesh, sliced lemons
and the pink thirsty heart of a melon.
On a hot sandy beach,
that burned my feet,
I once sipped a cold margarita
in the cool indigo, lavender shade
of a blindingly white umbrella.
out on the ledge
the wind stampedes,
bending the trees to the east,
forming newborn dunes on the beach,
as the moon pulls the roaring tide
thundering in on the rocks
and the dark clouds roll above
I don’t want to be inside
I want to ride
I want to spin
I want to throw my arms out wide
and scream
witches may fly here tonight
but if i must go in,
let it be to the ancient house
where the hawthorns bend and bow
let it be through the trembling door
where i left the key before,
where the hearth is built of granite
and the chimneys whistle and moan
and the fire almost gutters out
may the mountains loom as dark sentries,
to shelter the crumbling walls
as the land sinks down in terror,
beneath the quaking floors
may it stand,
as it has for three hundred years,
battling the wind
nothing will die here tonight
A storm was above and the wind was intense,
Rattling resistant windows,
It battered against the glass,
Salt patina crazed, obscuring the view.
The sea wall boomed, a dark drum.
The rocks, veiled by mussel shell
Opening wide to the tide,
Lay hidden beneath the wild surface
Of broiling and tumbling water
Turned in a pool of cross currents
The fog horn sang out
Above the deep throated echo of sirens
Who lure sailing men to their sea graves.
The tides of the turn leave us debris,
Strange treasures with rope and mast beams,
Blue glass rolled smooth by long tides,
Smashed shells and well polished pebbles.
Fragments of cuttlefish bone.
After the storm we gather them home
To make decorative frames for our mirrors
All our mirrors face out to the ocean.
Wind chimes of shells hang in the light.
Cuttlefish carved into faces unknown
Hang from blue string on our walls.
The storm did no damage at all.
The Dreaming Path 