Archives par mot-clé : darkness

#4128 poetry

photo: Pohara, a day of bad weather, just as beautiful

We would have to apologise to the world

for having promised for too long

that we would make it more grandiose

(it would be a metamorphosis

an overdose of seeing life through rose-coloured glasses )

because we couldn’t do that:

everything was already there

it is just that we couldn’t see it

#4206 prose poem

To become yourself, do like the seagull, whom by taking off repeatedly, finds its path and rhythm.

In the winds of doubt passing through the reeds, I embark on the journey of the self, sprinkled with shadow and light, whispers and gestures, but the mask shall be thrown off! Heavy and cold when moving towards the fragility of wildflowers, I will hold my ground in the storm, lift the veil, embrace the chaos, the beauty in order to find the essence.

#4138 Keri Hulme

Today, a short poem (to keep with the spirit of this blog) by Keri Hulme, born in 1947 in Christchurch, NZ. She is the author of the first New Zealand novel for which I had an immediate and total crush, The Bone People, published in 1984. She was the first New Zealander to win the Booker Prize in 1985, and the first to win it for a debut novel. The photo above expresses the uniqueness of her personality that comes through the image. She later published short stories (which I did not particularly like, but that is not her fault, I do not like short stories in general). However, I was lucky to find at this year’s second-hand book market, The Silences Between (Moeraki Conversations), published in 1982, which has been following me for some time :

I carry my ghosts on my shoulders/

Though some have never been born/

Did I have a silent cousin?/
Did I know tears/

In grief, seaweed/

In grief, bleeding/

In grief, obsidian knives