Three Poets of Water

Created by God, days before He created man, after the light had been divided from darkness and the heavens firmly secured, it was gathered on the third day so that the dry land and the living world could appear. Water represents the middle level of the cosmos, right between heaven and Earth. This unifying element becomes the perfect liaison between the spiritual and the material worlds, and its visible connections as well as its mysterious metamorphoses, almost by supernatural means, will never cease to amaze and fascinate mankind from birth to death.
Due to its incredible versatility, water seems to be able to adapt to every circumstance, being one of the most divine blessings and the wisest teacher there is. In only one stanza and 12 lines, the American poet and philosopher Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803- 1882) celebrates the duality of water, its vitalizing force and destructive potential, while also expressing his unconditional admiration and immeasurable indebtedness to “Water”:  “It wets my foot, but prettily, / It chills my life, but wittily, / It is not disconcerted, / It is not broken-hearted:/ Well used, it decketh joy,/Adorned, doubleth joy”.
The contrast between its ability to provide happiness and its power to bring about loss and ruin is preceded by the poet’s presumption (in the introductory lines of the poem) that “The water understands / Civilization well”. Playfully personified, the pretty and witty, wholehearted water, even in its cruelest hour, is also capable of grace: “Ill used, it will destroy,/In perfect time and measure/ With a face of golden pleasure/Elegantly destroy.”
To a reader’s mind, the poem “Water” is an invitation to reflection, a persuasive picture of earthly life lived in harmony with nature and also a crystal-clear warning about what might happen if man continues to mistreat the environment and play God.
Influenced by the poetry of Ralph Waldo Emerson and following into the footsteps of his predecessor, Robert Frost (1874- 1963) imagines a symbolic duality fire-ice and uses  strong, convincing images to warn the world about the impact of positive and negative emotions, both on a global scale and on a personal level. Before expressing his own personal views on the final destruction of the world, the poet introduces two rather objective, largely accepted apocalypse scenarios:”Some say the world will end in fire,/Some say in ice.”
The desire of man - and maybe its concrete manifestations embodied by lust, greed, gluttony and other deadly sins caused by excessive behaviour -  is thought to be able to become a fatal curse: “From what I've tasted of desire/I hold with those who favour fire.”
On the other hand, the metaphorical equivalent of generalized hatred is capable of unfolding an even more dramatic future in front of our eyes. A frozen perspective, resembling a new ice age,  symbolized by the end of love could also bring the fall of the humanity: “But if it had to perish twice,/ I think I know enough of hate/ To say that for destruction ice/ Is also great/ And would suffice.”
A third American voice paying tribute to the same muse, water, belongs to Emily Dickinson (1830-1886). The same poetess who had previously written that “Water is taught by thirst” (CXXXIII), proving that, ironically enough, the absence of some things teaches us their real value, gives us a few more insightful lessons in poem CXXXIV included in Part Four: Time and Eternity: “We thirst at first, -‘t is Nature’s act; /And later, when we die, /A little water supplicate/ Of fingers going by.”
Dickinson’s sensitivity makes the natural laws of life and death seem to have been written in tears for mankind: thirsty and unfulfilled at first, longing for more thereafter, hopeless and settling for “a little water” later on, on the death bed. Dickinson is aware of man’s tragic fate, and while the natural world, water in particular, has both time and eternity, mankind appears to be denied either.
However, physical thirst, together with a desire for the finer things in life, seems to temporarily quench man’s spiritual thirst for immortality: “It intimates the finer want,/Whose adequate supply/ Is that Great Water in the West/Termed Immortality.”
Living a life of painful deprivation before being condemned to experience a humble death makes man’s sufferings not only unavoidable, but also necessary. After all, the same fingers which built human civilization in Emerson’s poem and will probably sketch the Frostian end of the world in burning shades of fiery red or iced indifference, once signed a contract with the very nature they found on this planet. The fact that these feeble extensions of life will one last day need nothing more than a glass of water makes us reevaluate our choices and our priorities.  
The wonders of the natural world are God’s gifts, the present we are supposed to seize without robbing from the future generations. Among these wonders, water teaches us that time and immortality can belong to our species as well, as long as we learn to protect the external world for the sake of our descendants and allow more space in our hearts for love. Just like the water cycle, we should be able to change without losing anything.
Ralph Waldo Emerson, Robert Frost and Emily Dickinson are three poets who used their words to make significant differences in the way we perceive the material and spiritual reality. To save their world, each of them turned to water for inspiration and exemplification and they have been generously repaid. Century after century, an echo of a word of hope or a word of warning will reach us, enlightening our souls and reminding us of how God created our heaven on Earth and why we should not destroy it. 


Coincidentia Oppositorum (Unity of Opposites)

Lent-ears can leave all hope.
The bird-eyes are to testify
against them.
A terrestrial remainder
of thought and sorrow 
will be here
to channel
the inspired, deep breathing, 
then removed, 
like a bleeding-out story
from a survival theory
or a Dantean purgatory.
Your memory still lingers
over me
like a spiritual contrast,
an ironic alliance with a faithless past,
a denied complicity,
whose grace
saves the date
for an unforeseen future.
We had better unveil
the tragedy hide-outs in both,
those defying,
-without the expected results -
its physical charm,
its idyllic
yet hopeless embrace
or an attempted crossing
of the heart.


Right of Passage

Why do we fall
In love?
Are we not the good angels
on this wild journey
of life?
Is it about the heart or the hurt
this time?
Shall all our answers
be questioned, without parole,
by each Valentine,
then taught back
like some absolute truths are
Whatever they may say,
A broken heart is still open
Until death says its last “good-bye”.


Happy Birthday!

I celebrate the day
You were born!
I worship this date in the February calendar
Like I do every year, without exception;
The day you came into the world
and changed it for the better!
I also praise and sing about
The day when we first met,
Cherish that first time
You held my hand
right into yours
and that very first hug.
So, may you have dreams and your dreams all
May come true, dear!
May your life be blessed like never before!
My prayers to God go on and on
For you 
For good, for an eternity.
I hope you seek only to find
A future of yet more greatness.
May the top of the world be at your feet
(If you would like)!
May happiness and fullness and love
Always accept your invitations
And may they all spend the myriad 
of upcoming years
With you and your dearest.


Picture (inspired by Ed Sheeran’s Photograph)

My memory can fade,
My memory can go blank,
I shall still have you
With me.
When held in the arms
Of a teary beholder
Silence can speak,
It can even get you back home
long enough,
To walk the same old streets
You used to belong to
And be young.
Who needs more evidence?
Who needs more proof
There was “us”?
Who can doubt those eyes
Even though they don’t see the future
But only the past?
In a photograph
A heart never ceases to beat.
Only our time is stopped
Right between two kisses,
Only our souls are healed
Sharing a smile so selfless,
Or a moment of clarity
with the taker
Right before the age of the selfies.
Though frozen for life
inside a silver frame
Or an elusive prisoner to a flaring screen
You are still perfect.


Platonic Harbors

I look back and see no storm
The lifeboat, as always, is empty
I am adrift
On a shoreless sea
A gifted sailor 
Running out of worries
Leaving behind a tangled net of what-ifs
Feeling only lighter, not lonely
Inside a tangible, spider-web-like breeze
Swinging amid a burning horizon
In circles.
There is hope
In this immaterial voyage of mine
For a human pendulum
Constantly eluding balance!
A cold comfort keeps growing around
Taking over the melting spirits within
No anchorage visions for now
Or into the wind
To daunt me.  
From a distance I might be just a point
One step farther and I become invisible.
No mermaid song
To cloud my judgement,
No agony in the drinking of sea water,
No strings;
Only one piece of rope 
Attached to my pride.
I remember there were times
I’d resent seeing a lighthouse
Or hearing the “Land, ho!”cry
Or defensively anchoring.
The perk of being your own crew 
May break one's soul into spells of magic
Making no piracy worthwhile.
I have been everywhere
Surviving my past
In plain sight, I am here and now,
Though concealed from the rest of the world
You can see me:
Just wondering why
The shorter straw is never the last.


To the Unmourned

When we grow old
We become either poems or myths.
We should never become crystal tears
or broken pieces of heaven
or prospects of ignorant bliss.
Were we not true to our own souls,
to the choices we had
and the chances we missed,
We’d regret more, 
we'd forget the last 
instead of the least
and remember its tragic core.
If it were just for me, 
In times like these
of constant sorrow 
(but such due grief)
the seeds of doubt would replace only
the sour fruit of deceit
and they would feel, 
without filling,
its most fragrant void.
One last pledge be made, 
one solemn truth to admit
and be told
I once passed an olive branch to a man
then let the sun go down
on his faith 
and maybe his love,
after promising him the moon. 
I am sure what they say is all real
that the healing was in his pain
like some whispers are 
in the summer wind
So the echoes I’d hear
Were the fears we’d breathed'n before
And they weren’t in vain.
You see, as youngsters 
to rush into dead ends.
And as we grow older,
We promise ourselves we shall be poetry
and that we shall remember the white of the snow,
those walks against those crimson-red sunsets
that measured our heartrate
and hope we shall cherish
the hours we don’t regret.
Let’s say it together- youandme
before we are too old!!!
As long as we both shall live
We are two revenants without sin,
Two mourners a half-lifetime away, 
the unbaptised stars above
and maybe a gentle morning breeze
guiding us both into oblivion.