PHANTOM LOVES, PHANTOM WARS
Because You Thought You Were Nothing
I love you
in the strangest way
that’s not really love
nor less than love.
Who are you?
Mystery,
and clear as day.
A holy grail
is hidden inside
your unapproachable storm,
your greatness
that you will not let be
because it frightened someone else.
When I see you,
I see the Queen
you are
and the Queen
they hid
from your own eyes.
So that when today
you try to act like a Queen
you are only bluffing.
You don’t know
your own
magnificence.
You can’t find yourself on the map,
even though
you are the capital.
Others see
your terrible eyes
flashing like knives
every time they stir
or breathe,
but I see someone else
long ago,
come to smash your palace of glass
with their dark and envious
hammer.
I see them pulling the
most beautiful flower
out of the garden
with a lie.
"You are only a weed,"
they said,
but your petals
couldn’t help shining:
so they hurt you
till steams of blood
poured from your soul,
the blood called anger
to drive away
the water
and the sun
that were trying
to reach you.
Your thorns
have slain
many a fairy-tale ending;
and when God chose you
to receive His treasures,
you stayed sitting,
you did not believe
He could be calling you.
But I see you
behind the dark veils,
I see you as a soul
and as a woman.
It takes more than clouds
to bury the sun
from a poet’s eyes.
Each day I bask in your radiance,
I drink the beauty
that is poured from the cup
of your every move,
I know
what’s a lie,
and what’s the truth,
I believe in things
that you don’t.
When I see your bare arms
emerging from that summer dress
it is like seeing another woman
completely naked,
because it’s your arms.
They do that to me.
When I see your smile,
it is like
the world was saved;
the empty candle
in my dark heart
is lit by
the flame of your joy,
even though
I am only on the edge
of your smile,
and have nothing to do with it.
And when I hear you laugh
from far away
it is like the sound
of birds over the barren sea
that tell the dying sailor
land is near -
though it is land for you, and not for me.
It is as though
it were my land,
too.
Sometimes,
I look at my wounds
and think of the times
you have dug your fingers
into them
and I think,
"I should leave you,
too.
I should leave you
alone
in this empty house,
let your ghosts consume you,
and your own dark moods,
let the minutes pass
like a guillotine
being readied,
still the last
footsteps
that would come
your way."
But then -
but then -
who you really are
underneath the pain
that causes pain,
somehow it comes out, like
a beautiful hand reaching up from the ruins,
asking for nothing
and least of all from me,
but still,
I just can’t leave it,
I just can’t leave it,
though I said I would leave it
yesterday
and am sure to say I will leave it
tomorrow,
I just can’t leave it,
and it’s not saving you,
it’s wanting you -
first for me: and then, when that foolish dream is over,
for the beauty
of things that could be
without me -
because poets love beauty,
even when they’re left out.
I wish I could hold
your hand.
I wish I could
hug you.
I wish I could
say something that would make it better.
But I can only write a poem.
I can only write a poem,
and burn it in the air,
like a prayer
of ancient times
made to you,
made to you,
made to you,
made to who you really are,
still trying
to be free.
She’s a shaman woman,
it’s just
that she has no tribe.
When she walks away
into herself,
the bills don’t stop coming.
It doesn’t matter where she’s been -
to the most sacred place,
to the top of the spirit mountain,
where you can see all the world’s soul,
spread out for an instant
just like you were God.
It doesn’t matter.
No one here will wait for her to come back,
no one here
will wait to touch the part of a vision
she can put into words
or to believe in the part
that she can’t,
the part that
falls
out of her bewildered,
transformed eyes. The part that proves it all.
They’ll only ask why she didn’t pay;
and turn the sacred journey
into homelessness:
grasp at the things
she owns
as though she were dead…
She’s a shaman woman.
Sometimes she brings the light
and her hands
could heal the lame.
Sometimes she thrashes around
in dark waters
fighting demons
we can’t see.
She saves the sun
from being eaten,
the moon from being stolen
by the monsters of the night.
But those who don’t know
think she is merely hunting them.
They don’t know enough to move out of the way,
they stay clumsily in the sacred space
as though it were theirs,
even when spirit needs it more:
and then they blame her
because they have got mixed up
in her shadow-battles.
Who stays
in one place
when the tide rises
and the ocean claims the shore;
and who blames
the ocean?
But they blame her.
They throw stones at her
when she wakes up,
and tell her, "Leave."
She’s a shaman woman.
She needs a forest of her own.
And a people who would let her come
and go, and accept
"sometimes"
instead of
"always."
(The kind of people who when they saw the
wild geese arrive,
said "Thank you,"
not "Where have you been?")
But here,
there’s only this little space,
no room for so much
life
and so much destruction
all at once.
No room
for so much terrible honesty,
no room for the
mistakes
where lightning is born.
She’s a shaman woman,
but the world doesn’t want her
that way.
They want her
singing and her magic
to die.
They want no mountain
rising above
the flat plain.
They want no fear,
and will give up the truth
just to feel safe.
Like blind men,
they have no need for the moon;
so put it out!
She’s a shaman woman,
in a bad time.
Just hanging on.
A great one,
limping
at the bottom
of a world
that’s not really
the world.
I wanted to hold you.
I looked at you that night
and I felt
the forcefields
vanishing,
my field of self-defense
and loving
someone else;
your field
of wanting something better than me,
or perhaps
just not trusting men.
The impervious power of your face
like a shield
you always hold up
to stop
the spear of love -
I saw it begin to melt
in the darkness we were sharing,
something soft came in,
and ready,
and suddenly I could feel us naked together,
giving everything up
to have that one moment.
I could feel us naked together
as we sat across the table
from each other,
I could taste your lips
and see your eyes,
your proud eyes
giving in,
I could feel your body
saying "Yes,
I could feel all the reasons why we shouldn’t
vanishing,
like a disease
that’s been healed.
I wanted you so much
that night,
when our loneliness
was almost stronger
than our reason -
when we almost blundered
back
to life.
She’s the Queen of Sheba
- almost.
Sitting there alone
with her dangling legs,
her orphan legs
hanging over the edge
of the sofa.
She should be in someone’s arms right
now, but all she has
is the TV.
No one chose her.
Sometimes the brightest jewel
is left lying
on the side of the road.
She’s the Queen of Sheba
- almost.
Her eyes
- her eyes are like deep pools
waiting for love
to jump into them.
But no one dares to.
After a moment of infatuation
the risk takes over,
and dreams crawl back
to second choices.
Some people live
in frozen wastelands;
some people live in inhospitable
jungles.
In the same way,
the world is able
to live without her.
She’s the Queen of Sheba
- almost.
She is what everyone wants,
but the dose is
too strong.
The panther-walk
that entrances,
the love-fury which you can
read between the lines
of anything she does;
the laughter
that could bite you in two -
it’s too much.
No one brings
the moon
into their bed.
You just look at it
and leave it
for someone else.
Everyone leaves it
for someone else…
She’s the Queen of Sheba
- almost.
Solomon
went inside
when he saw her coming,
he was too wise
to say yes.
She came with treasures
from her land,
so the story goes,
camels laden
with silver and gold,
jewels from beyond the mind,
from the deepest mines
of the heart:
she came with herself.
But wise Solomon slipped
into his palace
and closed the door.
He knew the treasures would kill him
if he let them in,
just like fire
kills a moth.
Just like a raven
kills the thought
that you know it all.
He would not let the whirlpool
of such a woman
drag him down
to drown in
things
that only death
has the right
to bring.
He closed the door.
And without him
she could not be
who she was.
She’s the Queen of Sheba
- almost.
Alone,
but not willing
to settle for less.
Only Solomon will do,
and he’s too wise
to say Yes.
She’s the Queen of Sheba
- almost.
Shining too brightly
to slip past the guards;
carrying too much
to fly.
Stopped at the gates of every
lover’s mind
before the heart has a chance
to say,
"I don’t care."
She’s too much.
Everyone wanted
less.
She’s the Queen of Sheba
- almost.
Ice wall.
Who do you think
I am?
No, I won’t crawl,
not through
that cold air
that’s come between us.
I know it’s not me,
it’s your
will
to be alone.
I can’t break it.
I’m only me.
Ice wall.
Yesterday,
you were the shining sun.
Today
you’re a storm cloud,
covering yourself;
you sacrificed all your light,
was it just to get at me?
But I’m not the one.
I didn’t do it.
Ice wall.
Just when I was coming
your way.
But you wanted to be alone.
You needed a betrayal,
and there I was, standing like a fool
outside your door,
the perfect crime victim.
So you stole my motives;
you ran away
with my true feelings,
you left me as you wanted,
another cold and worthless one,
just to prove
the virtue
of solitude.
Seeing the world that way
is like a moat.
It keeps the castle safe
from the threat of happiness.
How well you defend
the dark prison
they locked you in.
Ice wall.
You used me
to protect
your grief,
not to lose any of that black
treasure.
You used me
to stay
alone.
I’d be angry at you,
if I hadn’t used you, too.
To be happy for one moment
I dreamt there was no wall.
And I hid upon the shore
of your
turbulent soul
listening to things
I knew would never be -
not with you.
Premonitions of today…
Yes, I knew it would finally come for me,
as it had come for all the others.
The day of being frozen.
But I fell harder.
I waited too long
because I needed beauty more,
and so
I saw it more.
In you.
Tragic beauty,
compelled to efface itself
by filling the world
with the sins of others!
How well you use our faults
to entomb yourself!
Well, now you’re safe again…
And all you had to do
was break my heart…
Ice wall.
It wasn’t me,
but now I must pay
the price:
because it doesn’t matter.
Being alone
is the God
you worship,
and I almost got
in the way.
Ice wall.
Don’t worry.
You’re cold enough.
I won’t get through.
Good-bye, Ice wall.
Good-bye.
I won’t get over you,
but I’ll go on living.
I always have.
Good-bye, Ice wall.
Good-bye.
The spell is broken
No one could have broken it but you
The spell is broken
Broken by the cruel things that you do.
Yesterday I woke up filled with pain
Knowing we were through
But today I woke up feeling alive again
Ready to start anew.
And only you could have done it - only you.
The spell is broken
I’m a free man
The spell is broken
Thanks to you
One day I was just a mule
carrying your gold
Next day when I questioned you
I woke up as a toad
But your power went too far
and the spell lost its magic grip
you lost me when I realized
"I can't take no more of this"
And the spell is broken
The spell is broken
No one could have done it but you
Yes the spell is broken
I'm a free man
The spell is broken
Thanks to you
Because You Thought You Were Nothing
Because you thought
you were nothing,
you had to become a monster.
You had to try
to rob from others
what you already had.
You had to
step on houses,
and roar in the night.
You made one half of the world run away,
and the other half want
to kill you.
You started a war
that didn’t need to be fought
and now you’re losing.
Today
someone who could have been your best friend
finally gave up,
he let you stay a monster.
The woman he loved
wasn’t as strong
as the beast
that had grown around her.
And it’s all because
you thought
you were nothing.
Can’t you get it out?
Can’t you get it out?
This poison, this control
that’s killing you,
that’s corrupting
the most beautiful
vision
that ever flashed across the sky?
Arthur pulled the sword
out of the stone,
and became the King of
England.
Can’t you get it out?
This terrible piece of someone else
that’s
ruining your life,
and mine.
A dragonfly
sits
on a closed orange bud.
He seems to
drink from it,
then flies away.
Then he comes back,
and drinks some more.
Then he flies away,
and comes back.
Every time it seems he is leaving,
but his leaving
is only a way
of coming.
Even though the bud won’t open for him,
it seems to nourish him.
Even though he seems to leave,
he stays.
Out there,
in the wilderness,
wolves howl.
And we lay awake,
spell-bound by the magic of their longing.
In just the same way,
I can hear the life we might have lived together
howling in the distance.
I lay awake, at night, sometimes, listening to it.
And then morning comes.
And there is nothing left
except for the lives we chose.
Shape-shifter.
I always come
expecting someone else.
Dove, pure white like snow,
peace in your wings;
hunting wolf, running in a pack,
you and your wounds,
your Furies and Angels,
bringing down the weak;
owl of wisdom
with shining eyes
that own the night;
serpent of the darkness,
striking from
moments of love
to destroy:
who will you be tonight?
Shape-shifter.
I always come
expecting someone else.
One day, I see a
wounded deer,
I come to remove the arrow
of a cruel hunter
with my gentle eyes,
and suddenly you are a porcupine
with arrows of your own,
my skin
is pierced with the forgetfulness
of my love.
Why can’t I remember?
You are never
what you seem to be.
Shape-shifter.
I always come
expecting someone else.
I see a sweet creature
of the land.
I come.
It is a bird that
flies away.
Loves drive me
to grow wings of my own,
I follow; why should the sky hold me back?
But suddenly
she has become a fish,
disappearing beneath the powerful waves
that remind me
of her soul.
I can never find her,
she is always something
different.
Where she was is never where she is.
By the time I reach her
it is never her.
Shape-shifter.
I always come
expecting someone else.
How can we love
if I never
know who will be there?
Shape-shifter.
I am always one step behind.
Trying to love you,
I’m dying.
I open doors that should stay closed,
I lower my shield
just when the spear is flying in;
and when I hide,
it’s when the cold snow is melting.
The chance is missed;
and since I’ve known you
it’s been like this.
Shape-shifter.
How can we love this way?
I always come
expecting someone else.
It is troscad time.
I’ll starve myself
by the love that could be
until you
admit that you were wrong
to mistreat me.
Would you be with a man
who gave away his dignity
for love?
It’s troscad time.
There’s beauty in tomorrow
if you’ll let it be.
But you have to say
you’re sorry
or I’ll not eat
one bit of your love
nor one bit of my dreams.
For love without pride
is death
for both.
One to be a tyrant,
and one to be a slave?
Love never wore chains well,
but always
turned away.
Nothing, at least,
holds the promise of what may still be,
so never should
it be quickly filled;
and never by what’s not right.
It’s troscad time.
Time to say no
to the beauty that bows
the Heavens down
and breaks the will
of all but the one
who is worthy
of your love.
And here I’ll sit,
by the door of life through you,
dying slowly every day
till you let me love you
with pride,
till you let me love you
on my feet.
Troscad time.
Not you for me,
nor me for you,
till the wrong’s undone
and love’s marred slate
with a new beginning’s
cleaned.
Bells are ringing
She spoke to me
Bells are ringing
The Bells of a Fool
Bells are ringing
She smiled again
Bells are ringing
The Bells of a Fool
Bells are ringing
She came back
Bells are ringing
The Bells of a Fool
Bells are ringing
I still love her
Bells are ringing
The Bells of a Fool
And there’s nothing I can do
And there’s nothing I want to do
Life’s in the ringing of these bells
The Bells of a Fool