Golden Traces

It was a dark, cloudless night,
Stars twinkled and shone bright,
He held her hand in his,
Together, making a fist,

Her other hand upon his shoulder,
His upon her waist, they moved closer,
Moving as one, millimetre at a time,
The music softly sounded rhyme by rhyme,

For dancing was when their souls met,
At communion, their bodies silhouette,
Eyes wide, souls bared,
Eyes shut, a love shared,

One step left, now right, two in time,
The music crescendos and climbs,
Hearts picking paces, winning races,
Love lining lives with golden traces,

Gods sang on sacred ground,
From within their bodies the song resounds,
Ambrosia drips from cups to lips,
Swaying to her hallowed hips,

This dance is timeless infinite,
Like consecrated stones of holy writ,
Laws have no meaning here,
This love contains no fear,

Her hands seemingly clutch his heart,
Piercing his chest, an arrowed dart,
His hands wrap around her ghost,
Forever caressing her earthly host.

Like sun flutters between eyelashes,
Their love incited celestial flashes,
Throwing their heads back in ecstasy,
Granted mutually-assured soulful clemency.

Word Play Xx

Definitely within the Madding Crowd

Warner bros / tumblr

God, Thomas Hardy is like magic. So innocuously placed, these phrases paint a landscape of subtlety and delight. Loving my current fling–Madding Crowd and all. 

The hill was covered on its northern side by an ancient and decaying plantation of beeches, whose upper verge formed a line over the crest fringing its arched curve against the sky, like a mane. To-night, these trees sheltered the southern slope from the keenest blasts, which smote the wood and floundered through it with a sound as of grumbling, or gushed over its crowning boughs in a weakened moan. The dry leaves in the ditch simmered and boiled in the same breezes, a tongue of air occasionally ferreting out a few, and sending them spinning across the grass. A group or two of the latest in date among this dead multitude had remained on the twigs which bore them till this very mid-winder time, and in falling rattled against the trunks with smart taps.

Between this half-wooded, half-naked hill and the vague still horizon its summit indistinctly commanded was a mysterious sheet of fathomless shade–the sounds only from which suggested that what it concealed bore some humble resemblance to features here. The thin grasses, more ore less coating the hill, were touched by the wind in breezes of differing powers, and almost differing natures–one rubbing the blades heavily, another raking them piercingly, another brushing them like a soft broom. The instinctive act of human-kind here was to stand, and listen, and learn how the trees on the right and the trees on the left wailed or chanted to each other in the regular antiphonies of a cathedral choir; how hedges and other shapes to leeward then caught the note, lowering it to the tenderest sob; and how the hurrying gust then plunged into the south to be heard no more.

Thomas Hardy, Far from the Madding Crowd (Toronto: Penguin Classics, 2013), 8-9.

Absolutely beautiful. It reminds me of when I go for a walk, by myself or with my dog, and I just stare into the distance. The way I notice the trees that line the variegated sun-setting sky. All you can do is breathe in the magic. Hardy’s lines are such beautiful examples of being a crafter of words and the subtle experience of existence. It feels like breathing. It feels like fresh air. It gives life. 

Clasp at the moon and drink in the stars

Source: Buzzfeed

Recall the words you’ve read, well and true,
For, one day, they’ll be asked of you,
Chime them back with zeal and truth,
Memory is a frivolous quality of youth,

She enchanted lines and sang with grace,
In her, words sweetly dance and deeply embrace,
To memorize the words of those before,
Was something she had little, anymore,

She hid in fear of being found out,
Imagining they’d wonder just what she was about,
But, to her, phrases were not so easily memorised, 
For, they oft took on many a subtle disguise,

And phrases are not just words stacked together,
There are letters that are joined and tethered,
Sounds and magic combine to depict,
Those rascally words that you’ve picked.

Beneath those letters matter is revealed,
Elemental truths, spiraled and congealed,
Sup at the table of earthly delights,
There you’ll find words oft lost in the night,

Like stars appear bland in the sky full of clouds,
Words seem silent until they are shouted out loud,
Swirling in murky desires and forgotten wars,
Droned and confused by many a chauvinistic bore,

Beguiled by journey and distant arrivals,
Penning words to challenge and surreptitiously rival, 
Climbing over letters only to stumble in brambles,
Choosing slow contrition over which we amble,

Blow away the fog before your eyes,
Reach and look towards the night skies,
Clasp at the moon and drink in the stars,
For these particular words are ours.


Star of darkness, stars of light,

Crinkled stardust shimmers delight,

Platters crackled with electric flair,

Diamonds wander thoroughfare,

Softly, cherubs lick ice-cream mountains,

Trickling streams lead to cascading fountains,

Onwards! yonder! stargazer, reach towards the sky,

Whereupon, delicious soothsaying nectar lie,

Surreptitious sips lead to incongruous gulps,

Turning fine words of old into wasted paper-pulp,

The author dissolves into lead-weighted despair,

Passions and thoughts eternally forbidden to share,

Hope glistens untoward on the destruction past,

Reviving the pages into the eternal fiery gas,

Diamonds struggle to twinkle true,

While blackened, tarred words shine through.