Stanzas – by Emily Bronte

Often rebuked, yet always back returning
To those first feelings that were born with me,
And leaving busy chase of wealth and learning
For idle dreams of things which cannot be:

To-day, I will seek not the shadowy region;
Its unsustaining vastness waxes drear;
And visions rising, legion after legion,
Bring the unreal world too strangely near.

I’ll walk, but not in old heroic traces,
And not in paths of high morality,
And not among the half-distinguished faces,
The clouded forms of long-past history.

I’ll walk where my own nature would be leading:
It vexes me to choose another guide:
Where the grey flocks in ferny glens are feeding;
Where the wild wind blows on the mountain side.

What have those lonely mountains worth revealing?
More glory and more grief than I can tell:
The earth that wakes one human heart to feeling
Can centre both the worlds of Heaven and Hell.

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Distant Figures

Ever more, your eyes are like
stones. Ripples have left in

the shadow of our lost
conversation. Moving

through open meadow,
clouds make darkened

spectral shapes. The story
of Sisyphus is formed –

mists carrying weights
they could have lost

long ago, if they’d been
honest with the world.

Perhaps rain will fall,
and new forms be made;

soon, mountainous
storms, obvious to all

who look, or feel weightless
pressure in the air.

 

Image: The painting “Sisyphus” by Kolesnikov Sergey, taken from http://www.russianpaintings.net/artists/artist_kolesnikov_sergey_246953/sisyphus_250500/

Flowering Abyss

You are a flowering abyss:
everyday you grow more beautiful
and more empty.
Like a storm in its eye,
sublime in its power,
becomes so suddenly
silent, in one place,
as the billowing winds
and capsizing waves
rage around it.

You are so much more
than I can say,
than I can see.
To me you are just a collection:
of what is reflected and triggered in my memories.