Saturday, June 29, 2019

Sheikha A. Returns

Tonight I'd like to welcome Sheikha A. back to The Song Is...  This first poem fits perfectly with the evening humidity.  Perhaps I ought to turn the lights off so that I can see the moon!


It’s hard to resist a provocation
dressed in your favourite colour;

when summers become a case
of scant apparels,

and there is never enough breeze
in the wind’s reserves to swathe

the night moon’s forehead
with a cool dampness;

I cover my body with white
thoughts from black books,

learning the speech of the tarrying
seas with its rightful pauses.

There are cliffs facing my door
sending in guests that will incubate
on cold walls;

there are trees facing my windows
bearing nests greater in number
for its branches can carry;

there are youthful evenings
that visit every moonrise
bringing promises to settle
in the pores of my garments;

and there is memory of life –

the musical shades
of your footsteps arriving –


Life was when a baby was born
and looked up to the sky

at his home; cried the tears of a stone
yet unwritten; fell into moment’s

silence to remember the stars
he saw on the way down,

and became aware of his eyes
that had now closed to the esoteric

to have to open them later to speak
the language of aesthetics. His mind

would not be unknown to secrets
of origins, if moulded by a knower

of truths; and if he were to be
raised by a believer of fantasy,

he would learn to write on water
in a life that is about saving none

of its parchments. He would grow
fast in body, ageing faster in sight.


Beyond where the sky rests,
I imagine a city at night,
it is large in size of land
but scantly populated,
there stands a pale walled
fort, wide and high
to house detached spirits
whose bodies have left
behind, their foreheads
wearing a dust not of earth;

aglow faces with contentment
treading no more cautiously
but freely, unhooked,
unshackled to preachments
previously hefting minds;

stirring fathomers
un-incarcerate of laws,
confident of their walk
into beckoning shadows;

they are no more unaware,
secrets of the sun -  its fire,
of the moon - its light,
every element
Of course, I am going to begin with Wayne Shorter's "Infant Eyes":

Fred Hersch's version of "Heartsong" follows:

I don't think I've posted much by Bill Evans, so here is his "Like Someone in Love":


1 comment:

  1. Lovely and I particularly like the Bill Evans selection. Nice poems, great music.