Poetry (36)

Hello Escritori,

I’ve added a discreet sidebar on the top right corner now, (not perfect yet) but it means that you can now gorge on your favourite categories to your heart’s content. Enjoy!

I needed a distinguished sort of visual for today’s Sunday poem, as it has some metaphysical weight to it. There have been calls for me to add an audio-bar of my dulcet tones… What say you? Would it improve the following offering?:

Jewish Doctor and Philosopher Moshe Ben Maimon. Respected Doctor to the Arab Court in Cordoba. Jewish Quarter, (Juderia) Cordoba, Southern Spain. 

cropped-jewish-quater-cordoba.jpg

The Concertina of Time

Time is nothing

Other than

The measurement

Of the falling away

Of life

In increments.

 

There’s consolation

In inuiting that

Death is birth

Backwards, with

A more knowing form

Of ailing consciousness.

 

I resist the constant

Stream of change.

Yet fear that loneliness is my lot.

Everything I look to is never enough

To sate me and all

Is but a game of halves.

No sooner revelled in

Than forgot.

 

Sell me the lie

Of humanity:

That the curve

Of your hand

Is the only bridge

Between both states

That preserves me

In a state of grace.

 

Thereby,

Once found

And the natural balance

Of Love and Life allowed:

To die a second time

Would be most common

And would not,

By logic, disarm.

 

There would then be

Far more logic to me,

If the death were not

By your hand

But in your arms.

 

(© Copyright Pola Negri 21/02/2016.)

 

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