Letter

Mist

In the heat of this summer night
Upon the breath-taking verge of adventure
There are unforgotten passions that stir
And force memory to alight.
Yes, thy ghost still hangs around me
Like rolling mist upon the morning shore
That clears at noon, but at night calls encore;
I drift between mist and memory.
Why do I think upon thee still?
Why do shadows linger within my mind?
I would shine if this magic would unwind —
Shine like dawn above misty rills!
This night one simple truth is clear to me
As I admit in fear that I miss thee.

I wrote that poem thinking of you, but then remembered you always frowned upon my classicalism, and always desired of me the challenges of change.

I wonder at night about how you are;
Whether you had a thought of me tonight
Or last night, or any night beneath these stars
With their cold indifference and pale light.
I would never run away from you,
But I could not go on, not after that.
We parted without the smallest adieu
Except a whimpered “Goodbye, Raf” — how flat.
Was that the way to bid farewell to love?
Where was the reconciliation that night?
Moonlit kiss with cathedral spires above?
No? too romantic for you, love, too trite?
What is that playing? Ne me quitte pas?
That will do nicely. Ne me quitte pas.

Still not enough? Interesting, you’ll say at best no doubt. Perhaps if I smash it all into little bits, forget the laws and standards of the noble and plunge my thoughts into the chaos you taught me. Let me cast my mind and writing desk into the wild air and see what depths the pen flies to and the ink splatters and dries. Perhaps I’ll play Asturias for you as you read this:

I am not obsessed with you,
I am merely in love with you:
Deepest and purest love
Like that of Verona,
That which exists without adieus,
All-consuming and blessed by Heaven’s dove.

Do I even love you?
I spent months toiling in the fields
Chained by own desire
That burned this bedraggled carcass,
For a true lover’s chains are always so
As I read in poems once, long ago.

No, I am not obsessed
Because obsessive lovers seek to possess
And I sought only to be possessed
To learn from you
To share with you
And find freedom and serenity.

No, I am not obsessed
For I have dreamt of you at night
In another’s embrace or abandoning me at a ball,
And despite windmills and mirrors
With Rocinante I rode on, never to yield;
Although I knew the ending.

No, I am not obsessed
If I was this would be a poem
And I assure you this is not —
Far from it, it is merely words upon words,
Prose with funny margins
Like a paper-doll cut up from a letter.

No, obsession does not leads to moonlit walks down old streets
Nor to the happiness of knowing the world is alive,
And that the world is free and needs no idol;
No idol but that of a beloved,
Who is like Freya or Flora or Persephone to this Hadean realm,
Who is my Venus, my Aphrodite, my arch-female,
Who is worth suffering for — again and again.
Was what we had — was that it? an obsession?

Our talks on some bench on a Tuesday afternoon,
Strolling admits towns and forests,
Discovering,
Exploring
That which lives beyond us,
Striving for the cause of friendship,
Laughing at the pain we cause each other,
Walking arm-in-arm to escape falling over,
Picking each other up when we had fallen,
Holding a shivering camera for each other,
And shivering at the thought of losing you;

That is not an obsession. No.
That is love.

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4 comments on “Letter

  1. asornwot says:

    We should talk sometime.

  2. chromasunrise says:

    I found your livejournal through the group for the people who went to the International School of Geneva. What years did you attend there? I was there between 1989 and 1991. I’m just seeing if I know anyone. =)

  3. anonymous says:

    Highland Fling Barbie’s getting a makeover. With a big knife. Coming soon to a website near you.

    signed,
    your adopted Virginian Mother.

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