Thursday, December 15, 2011

Letter to Masefield

Susan Trott's novel Sightings have the readers, along with the insouciant heroine Sunny, pining for a mysterious lover cum spy in Paris named Masefield. They met in Paris and got separated when Sunny had to go home to Inverness. They met again years after.

To my Masefield,

You are here. I can't remember why I waited for you. After all, you have been here long before I found you. 
Long before you kissed me mad.
Was it just a shadow I knew? A shadow in the labyrynth that was Paris?

You have followed and assumed that I would feel.

When I discovered that I loved you, it was entirely out of nowhere, out of the hinges of a need, a breath held for so long that I need to catch.
But what does it matter how I loved you, it is there and you are here.

If I ask you now, would the air around not turn blue or anything out of hue? Would you present me with an answer, an answer please designed to wake me where I sleep.

If I ask you why, would you lie to keep me here?
Or would you challenge my own being or love ... or understanding.

What does it matter if you love me.
It is there and you are here.

Your Sunny

Thursday, December 1, 2011

Songs of a Dream Remembered

Photo by arlene von zipper
I remember how the flaxen sun worshipped your skin
Sungod in midsummer madness
Your paintbrush eyelash brushing on my chin
Quiet, under the strain of your quickdry tears.

Dawn breaking
Like snow on windowsill
Halfwaked leaves eavesdropping on the walls
I watched your lashes quibbling
Full of tender sleep
I dropped a soft kiss on your lid
Gingerly I crept
Behind the mantle of my hair, I peeped
Steps falling hushed kittenpaws
Goldflecked sun streams on the stairs, whispering,
Dreams trailing baby's breath on air.

On the third year
I just let my hair grow long
Like the rain is long and sweet
Dewdrops wet our lips
Intoxicated with each other's breath
Our lips wed
Pursuing wild and tender aches.

The sky blew cold ditties on our skin
Wrapping our thighs with confusion.

Monday, July 11, 2011


picart by ami

If I were to look down into you,
I would see dark brown coffee grounds
And tea leaves that coax reading.
But aroma rises
And images swirl
Round,round they go,
Take me back
To your


Your dexterity in your weaving
Is surpassed only by the glibness of your tongue
You weave and tales come out of your fingers.
The interlaced patterns sometimes unravel
Whorls of ancient longings
Hurling you eons before your time.
I knit picked my way in
Drawn by the shadows
Of the loosely bounded tapestry.
The mesh, like web defies convention
Forming truths from strange connections.
As you pulled the last string into place
Nerves, taut as the strand
Swell from your hands.
From afar, I see the thing breathe on its own
Dispelling notions of your myths.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011


Whirlpool in my tea
 Keeping me awake but dreamy,
Book on the grass.

Smell of earth rises
Almost, I can feel the leaves
Turning moss to brown.

Dewdrops left behind
By the clouds, swept by the breeze
Leave no trace.

Tiny leaves spring forth
From the brown earth, one by one
Dolls fill up the shelves.

Fog descends unhurried
Rain clings to the bamboo
My feet in the pond.

Monday, July 4, 2011

Poetry Potluck Week 42-Siblings, Cousins, and Friends ~ Jingle Poetry

Poetry Potluck Week 42-Siblings, Cousins, and Friends ~ Jingle Poetry


Take off your mask
I am not going to laugh
I want to see
Your strangeness
Your uniqueness

Take off your mask
I want to know you
The furrows of your brow
The laughlines on your mouth

What makes you tick
Would you like to pick my brain?
I assure you
I'm harmless
I just want to see the face
Behind the mask.

We share something special
A common ache
A loneliness

So take off your mask
Take my hand.

-Ami de Manila

Hi Jingle Poetry,

This is my first time to submit here. I enjoy reading your poems . Best of luck!

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Landscape Blue

My hair stands up, something picks at my brain,
The atmosphere touchy as empty lair;
Death is a lovely lady in the rain.

I prick my thumb but I can feel no pain
I hear my voice but there’s nobody there
My hair stands up something picks at my brain.

Sensitive sky cries on the world mundane
Sketched a pallid figure, a glint in stare
Death is a lovely lady in the rain.

My landscape blue I paint and raze again
And turning white I curse the lady there
My hair stands up something picks at my brain.

I see the landscape blush on bud and grain
One minute inched to gold what once were bare
Death is a lovely lady in the rain.

Blood rose, electricity in my vein
Ink spread on paper catapults in air
My hair stands up something picks at my brain
Death is a lovely lady in the rain.

Sargasso: Sylvia's Tempest

Tonight I fall headlong
Down into that abyss
The yawning cauldron,
And then calm
Before the water
Hits rockbottom

I crawl with jointed limbs
On the crags and on the cliff
My aerial shudder as I feel
The ancient craving
And inundation of your lip.

I am Raggedy Ann hurling
Into the eye of the cyclone
Perspiration freezing my bones
Traversing the deathly silence
Of the stone.

Tonight I fall headlong
Deep into that abyss
The moon mask looking on
Black iris of the sky,
I rise seaweed tangled
Your memory clinging to my hair
Like a barnacle.