Winter Mind

Please, open the gusset of mind.

Night shrinks into its yolk in the niche.
Remote remorse creeps on, dwarf.

Wind perches on the night.
Want parches for the sight.

Winter and Want weave the magic thread
of harmony into the vanity of the snow.

Wisdom hibernates under the heaven’s gate,
Anxious winter yawns cozy, crouching askew.

Please, close the gore of mind.


Metal Erection on Winter

Clams always hold soft their outside tactiles
watering the cocky dryness of male sperms.

Their feminine arrogance never allows the long spear
of a young angler to poke into their deep chamber.

Bulls cannot hold long their fleshy bottles in the pistil’s cyst,
sometimes quiveringly shrunk on its exposed nakedness.

Their shy lust is shards, fractals which never stir
her trilling Spring garden to open its mouth wide.


To the Desire of Memory

O My Softness! You are penalizing me softly.
You burnt out my stifled dreams, still tiles.
When you stroll on the backyard, as if mercury,
my lime-fragrant skin grows its soul’s wrinkle.

O My soft memory! You are a pure amorous radish.
You melt the sour ice of Time, rotten in clean black.
When you peg off the sweet lip of the old trumpet,
your slim body swings the dead fins, flaggy flappers.

O My lapping desire! You are a white musty virus.
Take off the soft waxen grill of our old sombrero.
Show me the bluish steeples of our lost dawns.
Now, a bliss whispers in the sabre and saw, fuzzy.


Snow

Mathematics falls from New Jerusalem,
mysterious numerical combinations.

Snow Way hollers a heavenly ordain of copious eggs;
Deft beneficence commences in order and end in disorder.

White eyes whisk in numerical mysteries again.
They are blind to vocal figures, deaf to visual dances.

I am an Ouroboros weeping in the confetti of snow,
spiraling with eponymic tales/tails of self-cumulants.


*The Ouroboros is an ancient symbol depicting a dragon swallowing its own tail and forming a circle.


Winter Fountain

The coat strings are untying,

Hem by hem,

White seeds into air,

Shards of green gable

Tumble down, voiceless.

Lenin’s statue crumbles down,

Lightless sounds quiver,

All liquid goodbyes,

All beads dissolve.

Is my life tumbling down?


A Winter Voice

The voice may come too late.
The echo may come too early.

Don’t open the nothing book
too early before it sounds,
too late after it resounds.

The sun knows when to set.
The moon knows when to rise.
The fog knows when to go.
The mind knows when to dare.

Never give up, baby, not now, not now.
Never cry, sweet, not now, not now.

How harsh they twist a chicken’s neck,
The dawn will sprout bright tomorrow.


Full Moon

A white face, blue-cheeked
on a glassy winter boulder.
A silver ruble at the end of purple tunnel,
A grey rabbit chiseling on the white pommel,
A snowy demon stretching out his black hand,
All swirl into the third eye of a tiding night.
It is a twin, grey duality shimmering, hiding
behind the reflecting plane of mirror.
A floater on the lurking God’s eyes,
transparent into the half darkness.
The blue dawn trims out its brim.

A ventriloquist, whose voice shines spooky
on the skin of the Earth, inaudible as a sound,
but audible as a silence in the darkness.
It is mica of hollow dignity, fraying itself
into the bottom elongation of space.

He speaks by silence among the white streaks.
She sees by blurriness among her ninth eyes.
They hear by muteness among His pale hands.
It flows by their envy, hope, tears, and sighs.

He is happy with near distance.
She is sad with far closeness.
They are still with a hesitant dawn.
It is getting older with shards on my beetle’s wings.


You

I‘ll enshrine you in the memory,
Planting a green light in the dream,
Tintinnabulate the morning sound at the lobe.

I'll be an invisible salamander,
Reviving as a bonfire in the fireplace,
Snuggle my heart to you.

I'll turn into the bronze goblet
On the aromatic plain cherry table,
Abeyantly breathe in your fragrance.

I'll be the tapering candle
Flickering on the deaf skylight seat,
Light up your night walk homeward.

I'll remain as the pure child,
Trampling on the first snow,
Brace up your downfallen mind.

I'll flow into a small spring
Gurgling out your memories,
Slake your parching thirst in our Life Garden.


A Languid Morning

Crispness of chocolate bread, fresh-baked.
Coolness of white sheets, newly parched.
Sweaty nakedness in the shower room.
Slippery soap foams and pregnant fragrance.
They are all choking hope for a good day.

Lonely joy opens a silent morning;
Slick silky shoulder of a bathing baby.
A long crystal of cold orange juice.
Lazy hesitation for "Coffee or butter bread?"
Placid fugue during morning intermission.

Semantics, sound mechanism,
a tabby cat on the window,
they collapse very slowly
on the red wild roses below the snow.


Mind and Image

Truth is sucked into the mouth of a golden fish.
An Adam's apple rolls over its red nose bridge.
Then, the humanity, we have cherished so far,
Turns into a red halo of the sun, lost magneticism.

Our pride, more dolorous than the strayed leaves
In a blizzard, pleads for another wintry rain.
Yet, our language, unripe but accustomed,
pluck up its needle, as sharp as the dried bullhead.

We move into the vain image of the crystal icicles.
Mind is a reflected companion of the image.


When I Drink Winter Tea

You are the blue waves,
Transparent in deep motion.

Not too languid,
Not too sensitive,

I brood on the last mind,
Adorned, spread to the nose hair,

Coercively grasping
With hawking patience,

Not too meek, not too strong,
Blank frost of peaceful prescience.

Incense-burning harmony,
Silence-trilling smile,

You are my better half, keen, clear,
Unforgettable, but yet forgotten.


Facial Romance on Mirror

Our faces are multi-steps, de-colored.
Each wrinkle has different skin colors.

We once indulged in each other’s soul,
as we believed in a body of harmony.

It flows into us as an unfamiliar face,
now an idiot, sitting too long in place.

Tension lingers unannounced too long.
Mirror has no face of its own, but others’.

Give away the shadows of myriad stars!
You must go up to the Snow Mountain

to see your face on the glass of patina. Now
you must seek out the slimy face of intelligence.

In the vision of mirror remain only two faces.
Two iron cows stampede over the icy light.


Too complacent to escape from the images,
we drag a storyteller’s laver on the skin stairs.

Make a solitary expression when Time’s train goes by.
A cat’s yellow eyes look out on you by the window.

As you depart from the lonely faces of Snow Hill,
read the silent moan on the lip, an ice-clashing lake.


Night Rain

Rain mizzles and weasels
on the wooden wall and grapevine.
It rains like tender ravens.

Far down to the turquoise earth,
overhanging its grey nape,
winter rain wails and wails.

Rain is an ecstasy, shrine, antiquity,
music, flower petals, and a dumb gesture
longing for the hymnal life itself.

Night dialogue is warm without unaffected voice,
Night rain is ever-ready purple without dream,
Its sound and sense is closer without seeing.


Winter


An old monk’s bald head, cold, light-shimmering.
A snowflake falls into the red brazier, to exhume.
Winter goddess walks over the moaning longicorns.

A black glow worm flies down on a birch tree
with no growth rings, with no Paul's sermon.
Wayless memory flows over the snowy trail.


Winter Poetry

Mirror of terrible heaven,
jangling low in imagery.

Shard-clinging crispy morning
flushed in fragrance, a gate agape.

Inscribing a little his-story like
a charcoal fit on an apple tree.

A trilling of pebbles, white washed,
tensioned, frolicking with blue moonlight.

Action verbs, abstracted, reach
their hands onto the sugary nape of reality.

Young ancient mummies, covered and dis-covered.
their dry tears on the moss-growing rocks.

We briskly return collecting more verbal masks,
blue cold in ignorance of their depth and action.


The Window of White Sunlight


My life walks into a brimstone tunnel.
Dangling like blue pearly marbles,
cold rays decline in the winter room.
Sombre flute notes buoy up and down
from the blue pool of life, lurid.

"Give me black coffee
Today."

Midnight's destiny is
a wild knocking on a strange door.
The blue eyesight, hesitating in the nook,
wails for the dying footsteps.

The laurel crown of a cerulean disillusion
spins in the teatime of a downcast mind.
I walk down drowse on the rolling stairs,
where midnight's hot breath rises and rolls.

"Give me the window seat,
Warmed with cotton candy light. "


Torrefied by the cold sweat of the tender night
she hides the exposed skin, azure and arid,
and asks dry just to break the ice;

"You look jaded today.
Harsh life, alone?"
"No, harsh hush has harsh hash to forget."
"That so? Another coffee, s'il vous plaits! "

Love is not to hide its high-toned air.
Bare your shoulder of gauzy jelly.
Just throw it to be melt in a fire.

Standing under the elm tree, too late to sigh,
I am seeing what you wanted to forget.
Now jump down high, and rise up low,
to see if the bottom of love is too high
or the height of departure is too low.

"Shall we go now?
Thank you for coffee today."


A Winter Chair on the Lake

The forest of birch trees on the lakeside
mulls over the white beard falling in flurry.
Its smile sways in the faint light and slurs
in the pellets of the winter’s silent departure.

I always linger and lounge on the winter lake.
My footsteps sneak in too calm to see solitude.
Slowly I mumble her name on the blue lips
like a red grouse in the corner, soundless.

"Let me make a sweet mistake this winter.
I may not see any footsteps on the memory.”
A silent voice twirls her rigidity in the infinity.

O My bamboo barge! Rise and raise your rigid neck
and bite the hoarse snowing sounds on the ice.

My ferryman, Sharon, slap his hands on the icy back
and stir his slow shadows on the blue icy lake.
His long beard blows his fiery white breath.
White birds stop and see his flowing river in doubt.

We are all empty chairs sleep on the lonely raft,
white quilted under the pale snoozy moonlight.
Winter chairs recline into our boundless hearts,
on the serpentine raft, flowing for the next journey.

We are all bamboo rafts, stuck on the winter lake.
Our silver spoons were long lost in the snow stirps.
Sharon’s cold hands jerk over the tremors of silence.
He shouts, “Let's stand on the shadow of silence!”

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 07.12.2009

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