I looked into her eyes and all the world slipped away
watching grass grow
or paint dry
or rain fall
or coffee poured
or teeth brushed
or buttons buttoned
or hair parted
or water drawn
or pencil held
or finger traced
or breath exchanged
of beaches walked
and flowers picked
of breezes sailed
and clouds raked
of fog worn
and sweat embraced
of seat shared
and sweater grey
as cups sit on wood
and fingers twirl
thoughts of moments
where trees extend
and birds perch
feathers rowed
with beaks polished
a shoulder leans
a curve revealed
of light and shadow
and into her eyes
I feel my world
"A penny for your thoughts," said Em.
Trev sighed. She could see again. So could he.
32 comments:
Tonight I saw a look. And I knew what Trev would see when Em could see again. And I thought of what he would think, in that moment, looking into her eyes. So, I let the words just flow, without thought, without effort, without agenda.
Oh.....where are my words tonight? I struggled to express myself on my own site and I can't find my words here either. You say your words flow, without effort or agenda and they landed on this post beautifully. Maybe I will try again tomorrow to elaborate - the grey sweater? That spoke volumes. I will have to very simply say, tonight, that I love these words.
Jen, I can't explain a chapter like this one. I had no plan to write anything. I'm sitting in bed with my laptop and I'm listening to The Frames beautiful song "Falling Slowly," which I'm listening to after watching the Oscars and I have this image in my mind of Kiera Knightly from the movie Atonement. From that look, as this song played, these words slipped out. I didn't try to write them. I just thought of that look and how in a look we can find our world entire and everything else drops away, everything else changes, nothing else is seen the same way--when you have that look. This is another of those chapters where I feel I have no right to take credit for it. It wrote itself.
I've read it through a few times and this may be my all time favorite story chapter. This one, To My Mother, and A Thousand Wishes are my favorites so far (it's obvious who my favorite character is!!).
I know it is yours to interpret, but what this chapter says to me is this; familiarity, comfort, age-old love, the warm and fuzzy feelings of a permanent relationship (is there a such thing anymore?), acceptance of the everyday, and the way love can make anything special. Oh, and "cherish", that is here too. I REALLY liked this. It will be one to print off and tape to a mirror. Or the fridge! I'll have to put your work on the refridgerator, a place of honor in a Mommy's home! :^D Jen
I agree with Jen. In regards to age-old love...It just seems to encompass some of the smaller things in life that are meaningful and beautiful. I have not followed the "story", I'm new to the page...but I read the poems and apply them to past relationships of mine and my outlook toward life. My blog is nothing this deep...more of mere rant for me to put my feelings of depression and despair into text.
Good work!
-R
Jen, the only person who knows exactly what this chapter means is Trev. My own interpretation is very close to yours. When we are in love, everything looks different, feels different and even the smallest of things seems as a miracle; and, when with that person, even watching grass grow becomes the most important thing in the world, and, perhaps, the only thing in the world. :-)
Glad you liked this gibberish of a chapter. ;-)
R, thanks for the kind words. I wouldn't worry about following the story. It is written in a mosaic format, which will frustrate anyone trying to read it like "a book." I'd recommend reading the "Who's Who" (link on sidebar) and then just following from this point forward. Nice to see you stopping by again.
Trée its beautiful! I loved this post. I love the way the words came out without thought.
I love how the small details in life make such a difference when you feel love.
Wonderfully written as always
xx
Elise, thanks for the kind words and putting up with my random gibberish. :-)
This was another "IM" chapter, just stream of consciousness, not thinking, just typing based on an image and a mood. Had no plan to make a chapter. Yet, here it is.
I start a diet and you use a sprinkle covered donut for your header! MERCY! Change it soon! LOL - Jen
Jen, no worries. My donuts are calorie free. :-D
Beautiful poety Trée - reminded so much of my favourite poet Adrian Henri.
Em can see. Yay!
G*d help Trev if his eye should ever wander!
You know I meant poetry and I CAN spell it - right? lol
Miladysa, thank you. ;-)
Never heard of Adrian Henri. Off to Google.
A man of compassion, thank you! Jen
The pause after every line is filled, with rapture, this is such a graceful piece of writing, poetic, rhythmic, beautiful. The first sentence I looked into her eyes and all the world slipped away is what it feels like to read the words, to read that sentence is to embark upon a journey into dreams and memories, into moments that have been and moments longed for, to look into another's eyes and be not lost but found within..like the world entire this sentence matter-of-factly stated, no need for elaboration or decoration, more stirring for being truth given and recognized with the heart, and every word that follows is like a gentle ebb and flow. Pure bliss to feel the words wash over.
Too beautiful for words, I get to these parts
or breath exchanged
of beaches walked
and flowers picked
and sweat embraced
of seat shared
and sweater grey
as cups sit on wood
and fingers twirl
thoughts of moments
where trees extend
and birds perch
and I'm mush. For the language, for the feeling.
Coming back.
You know, that seat is on a certain deck and that sweater is in a certain closet and those cups are in a certain cupboard and that morning awaits for hearts that see the power of a dream lifted on the hope of a moment.
I hold a leaf to the morning sun and see the beauty of you. I pour two cups and know that neither one nor three would make sense. I run my hand over weathered wood, marked in time, and know you endure. Flowers open to your smile and birds forget the worm as the gentle tree gives of its fruit to frisky tails. How else do I say it my dear Sweetest One, the sun bows before a heart as sweet as the pregnant vine and the dew shines as diamonds on the gift of the day.
Like the ordinary events that you describe, it is the elementariness of this piece that gives it such potency. The very first line reminds me so of the great sonnets and how they would often begin. Like the morning sun peeking over the horizon and spreading its rays further as the day goes on, you, them. In just this introductory line there is a wealth of meaning, it is utterly and instantly seductive drawing on, feasting upon even, as I wrote above memories, desires, with one sentence the profoundness of the state of being in love has been laid bare and everything that follows is a celebration. At the wonder too. Not only is there the poem itself to contend with, but an equal measure of pleased admiration at how it is written, a simple statement (initial and elaborated), a best example, so befitting the content as it proceeds, that less is more.
or finger traced
or breath exchanged
of beaches walked
and flowers picked
No need, as many are wont to do when hearts are full and overflowing, to verbalize an entirety, so difficult sometimes to be simple and this is what you do so exceptionally well, move with grace and assuredness where it is easy to falter or rush. To see the world and live the moments with one’s heart, to look into another’s eyes and breathe each other in, two as one in harmony and presence...(as many are wont to do...) seeing through your eyes is poetry.
a shoulder leans
a curve revealed
of light and shadow
and into her eyes
I feel my world
As delightful, lovesome as anything you have written, that this is free flow from nowhere so to speak seals the deal on the beauty of your heart and soul.
As for your comment here, I know the place like I've never been elsewhere, I know what it is to sit on that seat, what the crisp air feels like on blanket days, the porcelain curve and warmth of cup passed and held and the wisps of wind coming in from the sea, the softness of that grey sweater to touch, the scent, and watching without words a profile turned to the horizon. Clear as the day.
And more poetry still, I've yet to recover from watching Trev watching Em watching Trev. You make me smile, the kind that won't budge and makes cheeks ache. brb
awwwwwwww, I always suspected you were also a poet.
Oh and I forgot to mention, there is something in the pic that takes me back to the lesson of the seashells again. Love it!
Beautiful imagery strung into words that captivate. Just lovely.
W and Cléa, thank you both for those very kind words. :-)
Those are very projectile images...
Mona, this is an old image, one of my early fractals--I had used it in a post, but not within the story. Nice to see you stopping by. :-)
From the heart, no strings. Absolutely lovely.
Thanks Deb. I think this is the only way a piece like this can be written--by the heart, not the mind.
" that seat is on a certain deck and that sweater is in a certain closet and those cups are in a certain cupboard and that morning awaits for hearts ... "
Did Walt forget to vice-versa his discovery of the universe in a grain of sand? What about the grain of sand in the universe? this particular unique bitsy grain one and only no other before or after, this here pink grain, of sand, and this cup the one with the chip on the lip and a trace of cherry-blossom-red that the soapy sponge missed, and this one here the black cup with "Flamingo Hotel,Las Vegas" in swirly gold fading now (his), and reaching up into the cupboard - yes, the one on the left with the sticky door that bumps your head when you pull ...
Particularness you so heart-know, Tree, making life exquisitely intimate, personal, how else could we love? This heart moved with smiles, tears. That you should exist, and write - thank you, most particular and beautiful Grain, thank you this and no other Universe!
Lacey, your comments touch me like few others. I feel a kindred spirit. I feel we could sit, with coffee, without words, and know. Just know; and smile in the knowing, just sipping our coffee.
I rarely finish books--I like to think of them as still open, still alive, a story still waiting for me to dive into. When I finish a book, it feels dead, so I don't kill them by finishing them. I have hundreds of "not finished" books waiting for me, still alive, still friends, a warmth between us.
I often buy books because I open to a random page and see a phrase, not even a sentence, but just a phrase that I like. That is enough for me.
I do the same with music videos and sometimes songs too. I just need that grain. Truth is truth and love is love and I pray everyday for the eyes to see it in a grain.
I write of a look. What more is there than "the look." Give me that look, and you can take all the treasure and riches for nothing can buy that look, nothing can replace that look.
I could say the same thing for "a touch" and perhaps one day I will write about the world in a hug, a tough of hands, a handwritten note, a kind word, of hearts generous.
I prefer to be with someone without words. Words are always pale. Words dilute. Words are just messengers. There is no word that stands alone.
I have the fortune or un-fortune to have been born with a highly sensitive nature. For many years I felt it a weakness. I cry at movies. I cry with music. I cry just imaging future chapters. I receive a lot of criticism for being sensitive. People try to tell me something is wrong with me. I used to listen and believe them. I no longer do.
I have been gifted with a positive outlook. I tend to see the glass as half full almost always and almost immediately in all things. Yet, people have accused me and my attitude of being fake or phony or delusional; that I am hiding something. Funny thing is, those who have leveled that criticism at me most vociferously have also been some of the most negative people I've ever known, their lives filled with pain and self-hatred spilling out and projecting onto the world at large.
I believe in moments. I believe that at the end of our days we will reflect and in that reflection, see moments.
As I have "chaptered" before, I ask this question:
What is the measure of one's life?
There has been much death in my life in the last three years--more than in the previous twenty-five. In each case, I have stood bedside and watched and listened. I have seen love and fear and regret. Most of all, I have seen how unnecessary so much of a life can be; I have seen how much pain one can inflict on another; and I will tell you this--in the end, it is all nothingness but absence of Love. I have seen too many lives lived with an absence of heart.
As I have read, and I believe this to be true, although many argue I am wrong: It is better to be kind than to be right.
Easy to be right when we have food and shelter and health. When, like my father who died of stomach cancer, two of the three are taking from you, being right no longer seems as important. So I ask again, what is the measure of a life? When our days are done and those we had power over come to stand as we lay, what is the accounting of our time?
Tree... are you still here? will you see that twenty-eight has become twenty-nine?
Your last sentence has made me erase all the words that filled this space earlier. One day we'll sip an afternoon coffee with real cream and brown sugar and speak of books, tears, touch, and the look,
or of nothing. The Knowing of our geminian twinship kinship. One of the things I erased was about being moved less by horror than by kindness, and remembered that I first found you here (accidentally, of course) with As If Janus.
But your last sentence. My father is ninety, and the Old Ones often go in the spring. My father was the reason I've lived in exile all my adult life, was the power unkind. How deeply we bond with our abuser, become him. I have been less than kind in my life. Yet immeasurably lucky (blessed, we say now)and like you, an incurable and eternal optimist. In recent years, healing, affection and love has come with my father and me. Yes, it is now I who stand over him, and cover his brow with my hand like a child.
I knew about you and death. It is why you write as you do. Losses beyond anything the world shows or teaches are now yours, maybe at a younger age than some. You now the bearer of paradox, the bitter that makes sweet. I feel very fortunate to know you here. Thank you for being so open and true.
Trée... are you still here? will you see that twenty-eight has become twenty-nine?
Your last sentence has made me erase all the words that filled this space earlier. One day we'll sip an afternoon coffee with real cream and brown sugar and speak of books, tears, touch, and the look,
or of nothing. The Knowing of our geminian twinship kinship. One of the things I erased was about being moved less by horror than by kindness, and remembered that I first found you here (accidentally, of course) with As If Janus.
But your last sentence. My father is ninety, and the Old Ones often go in the spring. My father was the reason I've lived in exile all my adult life, was the power unkind. How deeply we bond with our abuser, become him. I have been less than kind in my life. Yet immeasurably lucky (blessed, we say now)and like you, an incurable and eternal optimist. In recent years, healing, affection and love has come with my father and me. Yes, it is now I who stand over him, and cover his brow with my hand like a child.
I knew about you and death. It is why you write as you do. Losses beyond anything the world shows or teaches are now yours, maybe at a younger age than some. You now the bearer of paradox, the bitter that makes sweet. I feel very fortunate to know you here. Thank you for being so open and true.
Sorry!! The left twin didn't know what the right twin was doing. What it intended was merely to put the accent égu on the e of Trée.
xoxLacy
It's funny sometimes....how are inspires other art.
My favourite part:
a curve revealed
I love when you chancefully get to view a bit of skin unexpectedly.
It's even better when that skin belongs to the person behind the pair of eyes in which you see your world.
Stunning, Mr. Tree. Simply stunning.
The effortless flow creates a glow that brings a smile to my lips.
Happiness.
Also, I agree with Miladysa....
Em can SEE...
Frailing YAY!!!
And Conartisse's comment....whoa...awesome stuff.
Mr. Tree,
I love being one of those sensitive people. I enjoy feeling human and experiencing emotion. There is NOTHING wrong with us...despite what the assholes say.
I don't understand how a lot of people would rather walk around un-feeling and desensitized. Like robots.
And, oh my GOD....I love this:
It is better to be kind than to be right.
How so very true.
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