Michael Sazonov

Tag: Poetry

Sonnet on a Ginkgo Leaf

Through the strains of these veins, water did flow.

Nutrient-rich from root through trunk to tip.

For generations did this Ginkgo owe

None but itself a yearning chance to rip

Through Earth’s sullen view and stand above land,

And yet selflessly did its downturned leaves

Provide a curtain-like home to the ant,

A haven where songs of the birds could weave

Wise ancient tales of unwavering tunes.

Those selfsame leaves dance and shimmer like jewels,

Fluttering freely across many moons,

Bearing witness to all systems of rules.

I rub these veins, asking with my fingers,

“When we’re all gone, what is left, that lingers?”

Mandla Reuter. Lines on The Gate.

Mandla Reuter

Mandla Reuter:  The Gate. from Galerie Mezzanin

Caught between you and your memory
And now caught on the other side
of what once was a threshold
you slip now from seen and unseen,
in and out of focus,
here and then not.

Like the long heavy closed eyed yawn,
now here and now gone.

You, always there,
never coming or going,
standing still but separate
the both of you
not facing each other
not wanting to connect any longer.

You, old and new,
Did you one night,
with Lorca’s dying Orange Tree,
cut the shade you used to cast?

No more in life if no more with her?
Is that the end you choose for you?

To welcome interruptions
but  never anyone home,
To welcome interruptions
but never anyone home?

There you stand ready and waiting,
and yet I walk through you
and through you, and through you.

——————–

Grown apart
older now
both have bled
both are rusty,
one seems closed off.

One seems empty.

Both led home,
Now they stand apart like
grandparents
but not quite
themselves.

 

 

VanGogh’s Oleanders

Vincent van Gogh (1853–1890) Oil on canvas

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Leaning towards the breezy open window
Open faces do greet me cheery so.
Rose-cheeked crimson faces and blood flushed
Caressed by silken pinks and puffs of white
Like clouds on green agave
Cling embraced inside your favorite pitcher.

There’s your book of lines and my book of words
Precariously set on the corner of carelessness, nap time, and
nonchalance
Bathed in afternoon reaching towards dusk

Somehow begging to be sought after in a furious state of inspiration
Together forever united in time.

The Plight of the Poet

Something deep inside these ancient tracks keeps
us safe to hide while holding on. Feeling
too much, seeing it all. At least all you
can see, because you know you know nothing.

So something tender clings to you like your
favorite pair of jeans, knowing your thigh and
your seat so well.  Remember when you knew
her well. Her body like that. So close and
so tender. You both knew each other and
the world didn’t matter.

When did the world come crashing in? When did
we let go of the sails and just give in?
I want to swim to you I want you to
see me. As you once saw me.  Can that be?

Where eyes once burned so clearly for me that
now beyond them I don’t know what will be
because I can’t see a thing but this pen.
I cling to my words and my memories
And suppose I’m happy just to have been
part of your life and you a part of mine.

Something tender clings, something deep inside
that stirs sleepless nights from me and takes me
to places within myself I didn’t
know I had.  I guess there’s a journey in that.

And plenty of writing to do.