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Posts Tagged with “poetry”

6. March 2011
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An echo in time

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There is time, more than enough time, yet there is barely any left.

The noise of this world is get­ting louder, drown­ing out the songs, those mys­te­ri­ous songs, rever­ber­at­ing in time. I close my eyes, I dream. The mists of time envelop me and thus they appear, within the fra­grant air of times past, images of won­drous things. I walk through a for­est of thoughts and hopes, of flow­er­ing and blos­som­ing dreams, their per­fumes lin­ger­ing, fill­ing my heart and soul. In here, within this so-called delu­sion, real­ity has never been more proper to me.

And in this delu­sion I imag­ine that which is, that which has come to pass and that which will be if there is only a way out of the noise, the blar­ing, the scream­ing, the shriek­ing of the desires of all those who have never dreamed yet are con­stantly slum­ber­ing in a sopor, deprived of all the mys­ter­ies of life.

For it is time, time will carry them away like a tidal wave lick­ing the shore. And upon the white washed sands the dream­ers shall call out to the sea and call upon the wind of change. It will blow over the land, rush through the for­est of thoughts and hopes. I stay right here, in this ten­der, soft and all envelop­ing mist so that my dreams may never fade, that my mem­o­ries may be car­ried by the songs of yesterday’s birds back in time while their echoes rever­ber­ate eternally.

Time, there is more than enough yet there is barely any left.

© Thorsten Becker

Time is an odd “com­mod­ity” as we some­times have more than enough and other times not enough. We can run out of it, we can gain it yet we can never own it. We know that our time is lim­ited, be it our life­time orthe time we have each day. Our inabil­ity to influ­ence time — we can­not stop it nor turn it back– frus­trates us albeit we often expe­ri­ence it as devi­at­ing from its usual per­cep­tion. There are moments when time seems to move slower, even stand still while more often than not it appears to fly by.

Time sup­pos­edly heals all wounds yet it has no quan­tifi­able heal­ing prop­er­ties. Time con­founds us while hav­ing the most pro­found impact on our life. There is a time for every­thing and there is the con­cept of the end-times or the time of end, even an end to time itself. We are aware of the term “eter­nity” and what it means but it is beyond our grasp. I tried to put into a few select words my thoughts about time and its para­dox­i­cal prop­er­ties that are so essen­tial to all of us.

 

 

 

 

 

23. February 2011
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On that day when the clock had stopped

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On a day like a thou­sand razors cut­ting through thick fab­ric, tear­ing into burn­ing skin right through to aching bones with icy blazes. On a day of grave like silence, of ghost like islands drift­ing in the shad­owy mist of mourn­ful gloom, so trist.

On that day, when the clock had stopped and my heart had dropped, I watched a flock of crows around a frozen pond caw­ing at the sun, which was now hid­den behind a thick cloud as if it was not allowed to reign over this day, as if it had died, had been cov­ered with a shroud.

And as I stepped out into the open, onto frozen earth, once warm and musty now gray and rusty, I called out to those guardians of the moon, of that pale light in which crea­tures of the night stride“What have you done to the sun? Why has it been cap­tured and spun into a web of mourn­ing, where has gone that bright blue morning?”

There was much com­mo­tion, call­ing each other in their hoarse and raspy voices, wings in motion until one was found, a speaker, who flew over to me and sat on the ground. He mus­tered me with beam­ing black eyes as if he tried to pen­e­trate some sort of dis­guise and then began to say “Fay, I didn’t rec­og­nize you, didn’t expect you to hide, you wan­derer of twi­light, hide behind human skin, but now I see we are of kin. Your ques­tion surely a test must be for it was thee who requested it to see. It is a day of rest and retreat just like you in your dreams did entreat, a day of soli­tude, of solemn atti­tude, where dawn meets dusk at the cusp. A day like a dark­ish friend of yours from times gone by who also spun quite the tale about a dis­tant rel­a­tive of ours known sim­ply as the raven who vis­ited a house of lost hours.”

Oh you Poeish maven. For in my hazy dreams the night before I saw my soul, no longer agleam, ’twas lay­ing on the floor, on the ground as if with invis­i­ble chains kept and bound, refus­ing to be lifted by sun­shine bright and warm. All it wanted thence was to revel once more in the respite of a melan­choly nevermore.

? Thorsten Becker

 

Note: I just (March 3) came across One Stop Poetry, a great resource not just for poetry writ­ers. I decided to add this post to their One Shot Wednes­day fea­ture which encour­ages poetry writ­ers to visit their peers. There is a broad spec­trum of poetry, some­thing for every­one. Do have a look.

9. February 2011
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Symphony of the night

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Sym­phony of the night, orig­i­nally uploaded by Thorsten Becker.

A fiery red sun sets in the west, night rises swiftly in the east, a blood red moon her­alds the arrival of age old mys­ter­ies. Silently approaches the mas­quer­ade of ancient crea­tures, on wings of desire, gath­er­ing in the cham­bers of an old lav­ish man­sion. Time to dance the waltz of ethe­real motion.

There are no reflec­tions, no shad­ows, just sil­hou­ettes, float­ing about effort­lessly to the sym­phony of the night. Even moments of total silence can­not break their spells. Their charm is warmly felt in the chill­ing air.

Rustling of gowns, cling­ing of glasses, laugh­ter, whis­pers, softly. Ten­der embraces of that which once was, that which faded when dawn broke over a lost world, man­i­fest, for just a short period. Here yet not there, out of reach, out of touch. Watch­ing with eyes wide open like a child watch­ing fire­flies in the late sum­mer sky. Can­dles burn­ing, yet their flames do not consume.

But time marches on mer­ci­lessly, there is no escap­ing. Then, sud­denly, sad­ness fills the air, the lights begin to flicker and dawn breaks in the east once more.
And as the sun slowly begins its heavy ascend one by one they fade, wings flap­ping, dis­ap­pear­ing towards the west, chas­ing the fad­ing moon.

Sym­phony of the night, when will I hear your melodies again?

11. June 2010
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Poetry of the moment

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Poetry of the moment, orig­i­nally uploaded by Thorsten Becker.

Time. A string of minute events, a stream of con­tin­ues occur­rences, car­ry­ing upon its waves life’s many sto­ries, pass­ing, fleet­ing, never rest­ing. But within this stream sto­ry­tellers stand, lis­ten­ing, wait­ing, observ­ing, cap­tur­ing lit­tle pieces, pack­ing them away. A trea­sure trove of ran­dom moments, bits and pieces of time, preserved,crystallized,distilled, cher­ished. So I fetch a moment myself, like one who found a penny on the street, a street paved with gray stone and framed by old brick houses and col­or­ful facades, busy with the hus­tle and bus­tle of an early Fri­day after­noon. It is a ran­dom find on those lively streets of Lon­don on a typ­i­cal over­cast day. But it’s one filled with the rhythm of chaffing clothes and high heeled shoes, of shop­ping bags and cam­eras click­ing, of those wait­ing, those walk­ing, those smil­ing, those talk­ing, of a white rose in the hair and lis­ten­ing to music with­out much care. A moment filled with words flut­ter­ing about like star­tled birds, “Fancy that” — “I know, right” — “Stop when you get to the rub­bish bin” — “You’re hun­gry?” — “He was so rude” — “He said he was ter­ri­bly sorry for that out­rages fee.” An intrigu­ing ran­dom­ness of thoughts and expres­sions within this river of time, of peo­ple pass­ing by, mov­ing on, each one con­tribut­ing a part to this melody of the waves, ever chang­ing, always in motion, flow­ing and ebbing like the tides of the ocean. Yet it did not pass unno­ticed, not unap­pre­ci­ated, this one wave, one song, this poetry of the moment cre­ated by a hun­dred poets.

? Thorsten Becker

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