What is the best way to say „I love you”? Is there the best way to say it at all? Maybe with that vocalisation of rain or the floods of the sun beams all over the windows, roofs and faces. Or with the last snowflakes whirling down under a lonely street lamp of a Northern town. That kiss, that so much longed for kiss. With the whole world at our feet standing on the top of a volcano. With the curves of the desert dunes of the Orient. My first Lapis lazuli in palm on a distant path somewhere in the Hindu Kush mountains. With all those sounds and noise of a crowded room where I would recognize even your shadow. With the last beats of a tango in a rustic bar. When it seems I don’ t have to say anything at all. When everything to be said can be read in my every move, caress, touch, in my eyes, in yours. In silence between words. In every smile and giggle. In every crushing “Goodbye”, even if it is for an hour or two. In every moment of missing you. Clear or foggy, cold or hot, it must be said today, yesterday and tomorrow. A year ago. Two. A year ahead. And many more that can’t be counted. Shouldn’t be. Right now. In this very second. It’s mutual…the intimacy there could be just between 2 people – us. The feelings travelling two ways, with their own speed, strenght and intensity. Unpredictable. Poweful. Alluring. Dangerous. But there. One could call it the most powerful feeling. Or one could simply call it happiness.
Category: Whispers To Captain
Captured By The Devil
Every new day is different with you – so incredibly fresh. Laughing and teasing, making me wonder and want to search for more, to see what’ s there, beyond the surface. Since the very first day you have taken me on amazing journey, a breath – taking adventure where I am not only discovering and tasting you with an infinite curiosity, interest and temptation but also revealing things about myself. Like in a forest where I knew should have been just pines and a couple of birches but the further I walk, the more I feel and see another world all around. How would I have ever known it existed if not you?! And every new step is more intense. Being wild, so free and desparately wanting to stay captured at the same time. We talked once you might be the most interesting man I have ever met…I wouldn’ t doubt that, Captain. Yet fascinating, electrifying and unique are the words that jump in my mind next to “interesting”…
Being us…it is not just spring coming right in the middle of winter, it is a hot summer deep in the jungles, a wild ride on the back of an untamed mustang, a rain storm starting unexpectedly turning the air white in a few seconds. Dazzling. Making me shudder. It is a night in a desert where the sand exhales heat of the sun long after it’ s gone. You can never keep me for too long because I want to be kept by you. Sometimes to fight, pain mixed with pleasure but to be kept. To be with you, in your arms. It’ s never too long because time with you just wraps up all the hours in one moment. And another. And another one. So sensual and fresh like the first heavy raindrops on face before the storm, like feeling the sand through my toes while walking in dunes. I don’ t see the time, nor feel it. It’ s not there. Not for me. Not when I am with you.
With your voice, breath…pauses you paint the pictures I love. The pieces of art you create with your writings. You touch me in so many ways the world hasn’ t even heard about. I am captured, almost hypnotized. And not afraid of the intensity, about the ocean wave sweeping me off my feet because I know you will be there to let me stay on the board. Even if teasing at first to see my ability to balance on it in the water, still there. It’ s trust. That deep trust that I don’ t doubt. You make me feel alive. And seeing I can make you feel the same way is…exquisite. I will be gentle…with tender kisses of the lightness of a butterfly to feel and to taste you, touches and caresses but there will be also fire inside. Sharpness of nails. Flames of the jungle. In the moments it’ s expected the least.
Sense. Sensuality. You.
All the…senses with you have turned into something completely new, different. They feel so freshly rich, bring shivers down to my spine, that sizzling feeling all through my body, sweet dizziness of my mind. The taste…intensity…tones…like waves in the ocean when every new one is more powerful…yes, still the same…sort of, still called a wave just like many others but so different in all the ways. Not fitting any frames, neither controllable by anything or anybody in the world.
Like passion…so strong, so delicious that I can almost taste it. By a tongue tip. With a mix of some sweat from nude body, a tear-drop or two from the moment of ecstasy, splashes of…the birch juice with that luscious taste…torrents in shower running down…so many aromas mixed together in one that they can’ t be differed separately. Just altogether. All in one wave.
Or danger. Sometimes so sharp like some rocky top of a mountain. Or so high up when looking down from the edge of a volcano. Or so fast like a motorbike drive in the night without any lights. Not seen, just felt. With the growing thrill and desire to be a part of it. Sensing it bursting out and sliding in the corners of my body I never knew existed.
Wildness. With those vivid colours of rainforests, whispers of a desert, dusty streets of Kabul, crowded trains of India, loud markets of Arabia. Tied wrists with an old leather cord. Or the sharpness of a cold knife blade traced over pulsating skin.
And desire. Burning…hot like an Argentinian tango. Or the raw tribal dances around the fire. When it’ s all there. In the eyes…so clear, yet not shouted out loud…in the moves of the body with the lissom of some exotic flower, still unpredictability of a tiger. The moment before. Just before ravishing when the heart beats louder than any drums.
Care. Endearing like the kisses in an early morning finding their way together with the first sunbeams. Or held hand. Just a look in the eyes, a nod of a head. Or a word said quietly, almost whispered and even with many thousands kilometers apart heard so clearly. Like a gentle caress just with fingertips. A smile. Or a safety net guarding from bruised knees.
Splashed on canvas all of them would paint a beautiful picture. A different one every time since it’ s never the same. Like fireworks. Never repeated. Like every moment, every new day with you.
Sometimes It’s Beautiful Simply To Be
To be a moment before rain. When the black stormy clouds are burning over the rebellious white sand of the beach.
A moment before silence. When billows of the sea are trying to get rid of the rubbish, carried around like caravans of useless suitcases.
Before snow. When the full moon takes over the work of the sun’ s batteries allowing constellations to mix up one’ s foot-steps.
To be a moment before sleep. When flowers of shadow in the wet alsphalt are the only signs of one’ s presence .
Self-portrait
You know
my stubbornness-
getting up
at the same place
I have fallen.
I’ m not afraid
of thunder,
nor the roaring storm
against my window.
And will show up
just like that day-
with bruised knees
and scratched hands.
For you to save me
from the world’ s
tedious precepts
and useless advices.
Touch
We touch each other
Not just with lips
And fingertips.
Also with light
And shadow.
With words
And silence.
With joy
And sadness.
With presence
And absence
We touch.
Each other.
November 3rd
trenchant silence
like trembling sparrow in rib cage captured
feelings erupt
(In)satiable
yesterday.
i need so little
a roof over over my head
a slice of bread on the table
a pinch of salt
and him to share it with
today.
i turn salacious
i stalk the scent of his rugged cheek
i hunt down his dreams
and demand all his touches
be branded as “mine”
tomorrow.
i have forgotten
bread, roof and blunt hunger
but salt i never had
before he brought it
in his pocket mixed with some desert sand
yesterday after tomorrow.
Image courtesy of E.Vetlesen
Meeting At An Airport
“Meeting At An Airport” is a poem by a Palestinian poet Taha Muhammad Ali (Arabic: طه محمد علي). I was deeply moved by it-quite a whirlpool of emotions still swirling within me therefore would love to share with you:
You asked me once,
on our way back
from the midmorning
trip to the spring:
“What do you hate,
and who do you love?”
And I answered,
from behind the eyelashes
of my surprise,
my blood rushing
like the shadow
cast by a cloud of starlings:
“I hate departure . . .
I love the spring
and the path to the spring,
and I worship the middle
hours of morning.”
And you laughed . . .
and the almond tree blossomed
and the thicket grew loud with nightingales.
. . . A question
now four decades old:
I salute that question’s answer;
and an answer
as old as your departure;
I salute that answer’s question . . .
And today,
it’s preposterous,
here we are at a friendly airport
by the slimmest of chances,
and we meet.
Ah, Lord!
we meet.
And here you are
asking-again,
it’s absolutely preposterous-
I recognized you
but you didn’t recognize me.
“Is it you?!”
But you wouldn’t believe it.
And suddenly
you burst out and asked:
“If you’re really you,
What do you hate
and who do you love?!”
And I answered-
my blood
fleeing the hall,
rushing in me
like the shadow
cast by a cloud of starlings:
“I hate departure,
and I love the spring,
and the path to the spring,
and I worship the middle
hours of morning.”
And you wept,
and flowers bowed their heads,
and doves in the silk of their sorrow stumbled.
I would suggest also “An Endless Migration In Us…The Fourth Qasida“ by Managua Gunn.
Ese' s Voice 