Celandines by Egal Bohen

 

This week I am going to publish a poem from a rare gem of a find that I made earlier this year- the late Egal Bohen’s poetry book ‘The Navigator’.

Egal sadly passed away the morning after his book was finalised and published on Amazon, by his amazing daughter, Helen. This book is a must buy and should be up there in your shelf, for later reading, again and again. These are pearl words of wisdom that has come from a man who has lived, what I would consider from his words, a rich life.

I only know Egal through his words only and often, there are times when I have felt their tangible guidance like a spirit, especially when life brings about its dismay.

I am savouring this book, bit by bit, and I carry this in my work bag, making sure too read it only when I am in the mood for poetry, because even in the slightest of ways I do not want to disrespect Egal’s words, by not giving it my cent percent attention.

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Celandines is just one poem from his book. I can ensure you it’s filled page by page with the kind of words that should never be overlooked or unheard.

The Navigator is available on Amazon, for those who are interested. Pic as always by yours truly.

 

Woodland floor

Morning sun

Hearts of green

With yellow hung

Some have seven

Some have nine

Petals

In the light to shine

First messengers

Of spring

A sign

Cheerful

Cheeky

Celandines.

Apple Blossoms

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Shine on bright little ones

In the garden of 

The month of May.

You sweet little lillies

Of apples- crisp and green

That will ooze tangy sugar 

to coat my tongue 

a dream,

with or without cinnamon

in pies bearing the colour 

of autumn and the

cheer of being together 

again.

Until then, my visit beckons

the endless charm of

your white blossoms.

Smiling at me from sunshine,

preening on my  hazy thoughts

this fleeting moment

as short as my time here.

Your bowls that will shrink to 

form the fruits of my joy

In the garden of

The month of May.

Here

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Sunshine streams through the heavy clouds above

Like a call of conscience from heaven.

Life outside moves with a horizontal vector

While I’m sat here, static and in inertia of limbo.

The lilacs I always looked up to for respite

Have grown pale into the spite of existence grey.

Time moves inch by inch, every swipe of the needle

But a smudge on our longevity and dent in our breath.

I have not spent much here, yet I feel like

I have been home forever, 

The shadow of a stranger in the glass,

Some long lost friend.

I fix my gaze upon nothing yet I’m lost

Even the field of dandelions held like 

Beads of crystal in the softness of dusk tried to call me out.

Maybe that is what it is. To be here and now.

When you are really no where any how.

Cemaes Bay

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The sun has cast a magical spell

Over the Cemaes Bay.

The lambs shudder in their

Ironical coat of dismay.

The sea sings a tune of conundrum

A lullaby of dreams far away.

Whispers of rain cling to the

Windows and doorways as

The grey waves usher in the

Palliative joy to a

Heart that lay splayed.

Stones are thrown to awaken the

Limbo of a mind in fray.

Sway, sway, curtains of crystals.

Move away to the beaming sun rays.

The wind ha caught the eye of the

Meadow and my lover today.

My eyes have seen the pinecones

in their branches

Still and snuggled and

Nestled in their hay.

And they will never

Look back again.

Harvest

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A midriff lay slumped on a chair.

The spine an adage of another existence.

Crumps and foils have been cleared away.

Breakfast long served before the bell breaks

again, 

another blush of coral in a vase, like

a little child screaming for that what it knows not. 

As always.

The sun has esteemed our resilience. Idyllic fair-weather uncle.

The soil has been trowelled for him to feast and

lush worms exposed in their hideouts.

Little sylphs of the earth, mopping up the dried salt

of this frosted mud.

I lay a bulb, inch apart, and hoped for some gross vanity 

as spring disrupts into shoots and roots entangle the mess that we call life.

I let the water flow out wondering what it would taste like. A drink of brine inside. 

A tongue for foregone rains. Outside.

A silent robin looked around, perching its hunger on a barren branch.

 

Goodnight and Good Luck

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veins over tendons course

like a meandering river,

topography of lands and jungles

thicket, sinewing through muscles and bones,

in the lonely hands of a winner.

the thick gossamer of a deserted winter,

lush tones of yesterdays summer

allured in the wine crushed by another’s feet

percolating sin into another’s words

clouds like fresh cream, only in yesterday’s dream.

bright red stars and bells chime now

to bring in another chariot of time.

 

Decades more to sleep.

Charcoal Analogy

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There is a burning fireplace 

In every heart gathered here.

A dark chamber of secrets hidden

In the deep recesses of their ever burning soul.

Embers of dreams lost to a sallow, callous youth

when the blaze of arrogance danced to defeat.

They now yearn for the spirit of passion, that no longer

lodges in their withering flesh,

Longing to be ignited by the lick of a flame,

A touch, a swig of the tender fuel

Of love that can never be lost. Only found.

Again and again.

Our lives lie in this furnace, these lumps of burnt charcoal

That we are.

Waiting to be picked at, from its state of apparent futility.

These cold and needy times pleading for 

You and me, again,

To be burnt to the end of being burnt,

And nothing more to give but

What was already there.

Yet another chapter being written here. Sat by this fireplace.

To warm another’s belly.

To warm another’s hearth.

The forest sings…

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In the quiet hours of lassitude, between the waking and rising hours of dawn, the soul of this forest yearns to be clasped in the crush of your old wide palms, a visceral map of all the worlds you have touched and healed.

 

Skin at every arousable tip stretched tight upon these mountains and hillocks pine for the wetness oozing from the music only your mouth can sing.

 

The alluring darkness of her secret alcoves and explored caves awaits to be played upon by your nimble long calloused fingers that have caressed the softness of many a  lovers’ lips.

 

The feet of her earth ache to be entwined with your downtrodden ones, to infuse your roots with the vigour only her soil could give, even if you have to trample upon her, again and again.

 

And somewhere between the beginning, the middle and the end of her terrain, when you have trespassed all her rocks and marsh and pits and lakes, she lies wide open and awake, to have all of yours in her, in union and unison until eternity.

 

Letting the glaciers of all your unshed tears hitherto melt into the rivers that would make her deltas fertile, as she gives you life, while you sob into her earthly scent the undying throes of your passion.

 

 

 

Single Magpie

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I have had a very rough last few weeks. Just started off with a new job at a completely new place with lots to travelling to and fro from work and home. And I wouldn’t exactly be going ga-ga over my personal life, at the moment. My brains were all over the place and I was hurting people who genuinely loved me the most. I remember being a complete wreck last Sunday and reached the zenith of moments when I lost all my cool. In a way, it was a process of catharsis but it led to a lot of hurt and anguish that, unfortunately, I just couldn’t control, despite regular meditations.

I remember waking up the next morning, to a clear blue Monday sky. I got out of the bed, got my journal and pen, and penned down every single issue that has been bothering me ever since they started. And I could automatically feel the heavy iceberg in me slowly thawing away into a glacier of forgiveness. At the end of writing my journal, I took a resolve. That I will not my bruise my poor heart anymore. That I will treat my heart, my beating crystal of a beautiful heart with much more love and kindness and dignity, that she actually deserves. And from there on began my ability to be a lot more kinder to myself. And in the process, unto others.

I went out for a walk in the cold morning, the brilliant autumn sunshine wavering through the golden leaves, shimmering the green of the grass to make it appear gold- well technically, there was gold everywhere!

Autumn brings out every shade of gold, nature withheld in herself under the many guises of other colours of summer. Every colour of autumn, be it the bright yellow, the tarnished green, the burnt orange, the indifferent brown, the bright burgundy or even the sallow tawny of dried leaves, is a beautiful complement to the colour gold. It is as if, time wants to display her demise into the depth of another year, with a resplendent show.

My face was freezing and my hands nearly lost their sensations but I had never experienced so much happiness and release in a long while like then. I wrote a poem in honour of my day and made peace with myself. My life and its gains and losses- small and large.

I hope you like Single Magpie as much as I did writing it 🙂

 

 

I walked through miles of cold sunshine

Today.

The indignation of hitherto, waiting at its

Bay.

The sun had not smiled yet at the frost in its 

Thick white spread.

Yet the young green leaves shallow-ly bathed in the virgin waters of

The day.

Splinters of ray poked the peripheries of what I tried to see but couldn’t

Say.

Memories of bereft blood and memoirs of unknown laughters held me in my path in a 

daze.

Yonder arose a red mist held up in the sky sewn together with threads of autumn berries

A manic splay.

A magpie, a single magpie, as ominous as me

Soared up with its proud breast, perched upon the highest bough of a discarded tree, it’s foliage 

frayed.

All of us in equal share, in this frame, of the ruthlessness of hope and tomorrows.

She charmed me, this little white breast messiah, with nothing, absolutely nothing.

Just by being there. 

Loner bird, sat like a loner human

A queen in her stillness, a thinker of all sorts.

While I breathed in and earned my thought

Without a dime or two to spend.

Simple Words

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Pollinators taken a few years back when the lavender fields were in full bloom in Snowshill.

Taking this opportunity to share a poem of mine that got featured on Poetizer as Poem of the Day. Hope you like it 🙂

 

 

   Simple Words

 

I sit in my garden for a respite

From hungry mouths and unguarded minds

Don’t get me wrong, I’m one like my own

Talking to trees and flowers

The only art I know

A swift of the white breast of a magpie

And philanderer bees seeking for the sweetest nectar

They come to me on my own

Like a sweet lullaby,

A caress of the wind of

Clouds that move south.

I sit and dream of that cottage by the lake

Where unto mortality I shall ripe

No cacophony of my own ilk to grind

Just me and myself and the rustle of leaves

Bidding time a goodbye.