Poetry (51)

Hello Escritori,

Good morning! I almost had nothing for you all on this Poetry Sunday – given that you have had nothing but poems for practically a month, you can forgive the levy for being a little dry.

Nonetheless, just call me Rumple because I managed to spin you something that seems suspiciously Sufi to me… (hahaha.) There’s a slight nod to Louis de Berniéres as well – but enjoy.



I wake in the morning

To hear a bird sing.

All the while sounding

As if its throat

Was rinsed

In silver.


Lithe, pulsing, pure, succinct,

A self-sustaining sound.

And lying there

I can’t help but meditate

That less and less occurs

The longing for love

As a conference of souls.


That is a property that was

And ever will be God’s.


Instead I lie

And contemplate the preference

For a tentative love

Something frail but that endures


Merely of an acceptance

Of human flaws.


What else is a song

Such as this one bird sings…

But notes upon

A canvas of silence?

Those too written

By a Divine Hand,

Leaving other songs

To be sung by Man:

Who is no more than

A bird, without wings.


(© Copyright Pola Negri, 09/07/2016.)


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