pj harvey, the river

The River, PJ Harvey

somehow... really not enough to share pain
when we cannot wash, be purified, release poison
and past — and meet again

nothing to ‚do’

nothing you can ‚do‘

i wanted you undressed

warm and cold and naked

in my arms, feeling the waves

of your soul, your  breath

and sometimes a whisper

in my ear, sleep, a dream,

to be so near and so far

as a bird on my hand

and when you wake, your 

eyes, sleepy clouds, slowly

clearing giving way to a

smile for the day, for you

and for me. this i wished.

but the past has spilled poison

like a dense curtain.

what we cannot change

now will become future,

dead birds dropping

out of the sky to float

in dark waters towards the sea.

through connemara to campingside at the sea

from Cong to Leenane,Connemara, Wild Atlantic Way

Cong

Cong

The sun brightens the green

and makes the autum leaves

shine on the cemetery ground,

auburn, and a tiny robin

explores me as a neighbour.

i smile at him but know

he cannot see, looking for

another kind of food

i notice how for long

i could not see the blue

of the sky nor listen

to the chirping language

of birds nor watch the crows

circling the fields,

i was out of time

and now i am here

for once i made my peace

and unrest has left,

desire lifted, i can

breathe and be here

hope is a traitor, it

had painted my soul

and stretched it out

until it snapped

and i tore free, not

to float in the orbit,

not this small lonely dot,

but here as part of now

the rain stopped at night,

it washed my world

of words and transformed

separation into freedom

sela.

Separation, W.S.Merwin

Your absence has gone through me  

Like thread through a needle. 

Everything I do is stitched with its color.

to Cong, Ireland

Khalil Gibran, love,separation

“Love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation”

note:
it‘s a nice perspective.
release can be love, another nice way.
aren‘t we all nice people?

what to remember when waking, David Whyte

In that first hardly noticed moment in which you wake,
coming back to this life from the other
more secret, moveable and frighteningly honest world
where everything began,
there is a small opening into the new day
which closes the moment you begin your plans.

What you can plan is too small for you to live.
What you can live wholeheartedly will make plans enough
for the vitality hidden in your sleep.

To be human is to become visible
while carrying what is hidden as a gift to others.
To remember the other world in this world
is to live in your true inheritance.

You are not a troubled guest on this earth,
you are not an accident amidst other accidents
you were invited from another and greater night
than the one from which you have just emerged.

Now, looking through the slanting light of the morning window
toward the mountain presence of everything that can be
what urgency calls you to your one love?
What shape waits in the seed of you
to grow and spread its branches
against a future sky?

Is it waiting in the fertile sea?
In the trees beyond the house?
In the life you can imagine for yourself?
In the open and lovely white page on the writing desk?