I.
Do the mountains make you laugh?
Does the river remind you of burning wood?
Does the snail make you forget your wallet?
Are the falling leaves interfering with your tax returns?
Does the ocean remind you of groceries you left in the car?
Did the plains make you feel claustrophobic?
Do the borders make you think about your daughter in school?
Will the fruit seller make you wonder when you last saw the dentist?
Does the ticket stub from the bus ride tell you tales of hospital beds?
Do trains make you dream?
Do water lilies make you sing?
Do the rice fields make you cry?
Do the reeds grow so high that you feel alone?
Did the cyclist wish he was in your shoes because the butterfly rested on your arm?
Do warm puddings make you grab a book from the shelf and
Will the ensemble hear what you have to say about the trees?
Do wall posters fill your memories?
Do markets make you miss your birthday?
Did the party make you hold on to your dearest?
Do the summers float like tubes down the falls?
Does camphor smell like holidays?
Do you welcome the dawn?
Do you cherish closed doors?
Do you believe in sugar paper?
And do you collect orange peels?
II.
I left the apple in the car and stuck a cinnamon into it to sweeten the staleness that resided
within the walls of anger, anxiety, hope and love.
But what is that scent, that when infused with ginger is a little flirtation over the kitchen counter
that almost feels as if it was reigniting the passion of yesteryears.
I had faith in you of Magyar;
of oldness and being forever and everywhere,
right beneath this sheet of dreams.
We walked down the paved road
To the turn where the fields end
and the mills rise and
send out the sawdust that
always lands in our eyes
These sandals will give way soon
and we have much to cover in this short time.
A time of bicycles and buses and butterflies and bumble bees and chasing down the fields and playgrounds
A time of sunrises and storms and rooftops flying and wild gardens and foolish games
When the journey from the front to the back was a novel of twenty chapters.
III.
I am greeted by a whiff of the nutmeg,
in liquids of red and orange
It soothes, it calms,
But there's pain in the air
and here comes a sense of traipsing through the ages and not really being sure if this body was for this world anymore.
You exploded into a million bits
and entered
my blood
and his blood
and her blood
until there was no more
until we couldn't breathe
because you were becoming our breath.
At times you were choking me,
us
and I wanted to open the doors to let the light in
Tell me if its a day I want to embrace or if I'll turn my back and long for the night.
IV.
We've left no memorabilias
No stained paper or cracked
doors of cabinets made of
teak and covered in lacquer
No trays of mother of pearl
or paintings of village girls
No jewels and no embroidered dresses
Maybe a pot or two in silver
with our names engraved
in case the stranger asks;
"who did these once belong to?"
I say it belonged to my heart
that was so closed and guarded
And to my mind that wandered in fables, myths, tales and dramas
To my soul that ached and broke
and grew into the vast wheat fields and into the sea of poppies
and into a springtime bloom of marigolds and sunflowers
bursting into colours of yellow and orange and green against the sky of blue.
I see the vastness of the universe running through my veins
I feel it in my nostrils
I am energised
I am alive
I am the hands
I am the summer
I am the hospital beds
I am the bouquet of flowers
I am the ticket and I am the dusty path
I remember
I remember
I remember
You, the jasmine of my life.
(July 2014 / 29 May 2017)
