Sean ó Coileáin | The Ruins of Timoleague Abbey

I am gut sad.
I am flirting
with the green waves,
wandering the sand,
feeding reflection
into the seaweed foam.
That Shaker’s moon
is up.
Crested by corn-colored stars
and traced by those witchy scribblers
who read the bone-smoke.
No wind at all —
no flutter
for foxglove or elm.
There is a church door.
In the time
when the people
of  my hut lived,
there was eating and thinking
dished out to the poor
and the soul-sick in this place.
I am in my remembering.
By the frame of  the door
is a crooked black bench.
It is oily with history
of the rumps of sages,
and the foot-sore
who lingered in the storm.
I am bent with weeping.
This blue dream
chucks the salt
from me.
I remember
the walls god-bright
with the king’s theology,
the slow chorus
of  the low bell,
the full hymn
of  the byre and field.
Pathetic hut.
Rain-cracked and wind-straddled.
Your walls bare-nubbed
by chill flagons
of ocean spit.
The saints are scattered.
The high gable
is an ivy tangle.
The stink of fox
is the only swinging incense.
There is no stew
for this arriving prodigal,
no candled bed.
My kin
lie under the ground
of this place.
My shape
is sloughed with grief.
No more red tree
between my thighs.
My eyes are milk.
Rage my pony.
My face has earnt
the grim mask.
My heart a husky gore.
But my hand. My hand
reaches through this sour air
and touches
the splendid darkness
of my deliverer.

— Sean ó Coileáin

Translated from the Irish
lilac2
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Return

Flowers like reincarnations of ocean waves,
the soft scent of jasmine
mingled with amber
and quiet sighs:
the language of my heart.

Return to me in tender shades
of love, in words that embed themselves
in my veins,
and infuse the air
until all I am breathing is desire for you.

— Violet Tudor

MiraNedyalkova 82 4 Hiding in the silence of the night.

Mira Nedyalkova | Hiding In The Silence Of Night

Do Not Reproduce Poetry In Whole Or In Part Without Permission
© @SweetViolettes — Violet Tudor 2017

Candid Desire

 

Warm summer rain,
abandoned coffee,
and overwhelming desire
for kisses in the rain
and salvation found only
in your arms.

Prayers answered
as I worship at your altar,
for you were never
afraid of the thorns
to grasp your rose.

— Violet Tudor

Thorns and roses

Do Not Reproduce Poetry In Whole Or In Part Without Permission
© @SweetViolettes — Violet Tudor 2017

Sans Mots

His pulse, lost in the reflection of her sapphire eyes,
pulled out of obsidian ocean by sparkles of light
that beam, calling him home like a ship to port.

(Come, shipwreck on my shore)

Her breath, at once stolen by him, returned in
jagged intakes of passion, each burst of air
sweetened with the fragrance of desire.

(Intoxicated by notes of mingled ecstasy)

Their limbs, tangled with soft silk and crisp linen
poetry written with ruby lips and long fingers
unspoken language of love shared by two.

—  Violet Tudor

Agnieszka Motyka

Amber Rose Ortolano Photography.

Do Not Reproduce Poetry In Whole Or In Part Without Permission
© @SweetViolettes — Violet Tudor 2017

Credit for Prompt: ‘obsidian ocean’ to #MadVerse

Prelude To A Frisson

Paper birds rustled against my heart —
And then he brushed my tears away and said,
‘You were never lovelier than you are right now.’

— Violet Tudor

IMG2051

Mike Pavlovsky Photography | Classic

Do Not Reproduce Poetry In Whole Or In Part Without Permission
© @SweetViolettes — Violet Tudor 2017

Three Poems by Arthur Rimbaud

ETERNITY

It is discovered.
What? Eternity.
In the whirling light
Of sun become sea.

O my sentinel soul,
Let us always desire
The nothing of night
And the day on fire.

From the voice of the World
And the striving of Man
You must set yourself free;
You must fly as you can.

For out of you only,
Soft silken embers,
Duty arises
Nor surfeit remembers.

Then shall all hope fail…
Nul orietur.
Science with patience,
The torment is sure.

It is discovered.
What? Eternity.
In the whirling light
Of sun become sea.

 

VOWELS

Black A, white E, red I, green U, blue O—vowels,
Some day I will open your silent pregnancies:
A, black belt, hairy with bursting flies,
Bumbling and buzzing over stinking cruelties.

Pits of night; E, candor of sand and pavilions,
High glacial spears, white kings, trembling Queen-Anne’s lace;
I, bloody spittle, laughter dribbling from a face
In wild denial or in anger, vermilions;

U,…divine movement of viridian seas,
Peace of pastures animal-strewn, peace of calm lines
Drawn on foreheads worn with heavy alchemies;

O, supreme Trumpet, harsh with strange stridencies,
Silences traced in angels and astral designs:
O…OMEGA…the violet light of His Eyes!

 

AFTER FRANCOIS COPPEE

I sat in a third-class railway car; an old priest
By the window took out his pipe—antique, at least—
And leaned against the window an old chin stained puce.
Then this christian, ignoring insulting abuse,
Turning to me, made a request, forceful, but sad,
For some tobacco—which, as it happened, I had—
He was once, it appeared, chaplain and confessor
To a proscribed nobleman and his successor—
To while away the length of a tunnel—dark vein
Laid open for travelers—by Soissons, near Aisne.

 

via http://www.nybooks.com/articles/1967/06/01/three-poems-by-arthur-rimbaud/

Perhaps

Perhaps poetry, perhaps the stars,
perhaps the moon hanging softly —
her light shines just right.
Perhaps you, perhaps I
…perhaps tonight.

— Violet Tudor

Antigone Kourakou

Antidone Kourakou Photography, 2012

Do Not Reproduce Poetry In Whole Or In Part Without Permission
© @SweetViolettes — Violet Tudor 2017