It

What is that thing, that friend, that foe?
We can be on it, behind it and ahead of it.
We can be in it, or we can be out of it.
Sometimes we race against it,
or while it away,
waste it, kill it,
use it, spend it,
save it, or buy it.

It is a gift:
We can take it, or give it.
It comes. It goes.
It can be our prison. It can be our master.
It lets things grow. It lets things decay.
It does not change us—
but simply, unfolds, us.

It deserts us in glory,
but without it, a heart does not beat.
It is always there for us when we’re in pain,
letting us bathe in our agony.
But, it also lets us heal, and lets us forget.

We can’t see it. We can’t hear it.
And, no, we can’t eat it,
even if it sounds like we could.
We perceive it.
It is a dimension.
It came out of nothing,
and will leave when there is nothing left.
It reveals everything.

It is the space between the notes,
the canvas of the painting of music,
of seasons, of night and of day.
It only goes in one direction,
and it never goes back.

Copyright © Quirina Roode-Gutzmer 2012.
All rights reserved.

This poem is linked to dVersepoets Open Link Night, Week 37.
DVerse Poets Pub is a place where poets and writers gather to celebrate poetry.

Prague by misty night

Your majestic spires,
Gothic fantasy in the sky,
a place of Renaissance,
where Habsburg kings and queens sat,
weighed down by a curtain of iron,
lifted by revolution velvet.

Your evanescent breath,
your clime,
mutable soul reflecting.
Moods, so many, so rich.
Elegant here, kitsch there.

Thick mist descends with the sun,
upon every thing,
like a soft blanket,
its fabric,
moisture droplets
like glitter on my face,
like angel freckles.

As the sunlight wanes,
the soft sodium light waxes,
in a side street,
glowing inside a misty cocoon.
The light reflecting golden
from smooth
medieval cobbled stones,
where many horses’ feet clip clopped,
and many souls walked,
where Rilke stepped,
Kafka, Kundera, Havel.

In this sepia dream,
sounds and sights,
so soft.
Alone, not scary.
Solitude, safe,
beautiful,
serene.

When standing still,
all I know is that I am here,
now.
I can’t see where I came from,
and I can’t see where I am going;
so warm is this blanket of fog.
The boundary around me,
changing, gently, with me,
to a new here and now.

I disappear,
into a smoke-filled room,
immersed in jazz,
with warm people,
who talk of irony,
and who laugh,
until …
I am absinthe,
in this mist.

Copyright © Quirina Roode-Gutzmer 2012. All rights reserved.

This poem is linked to dVersepoets Open Link Night, Week 34.
DVerse Poets Pub is a place where poets and writers gather to celebrate poetry.