what I want

it’s all very well

saying I’ll only do what I want to do

when what I really want to do is

soar across an evening sky

look down on a landscape of open space

mountains on the horizon

the red sun lighting them up from beyond

the moon riding high and cold

on air that is cool

and tasty and supporting me

slipping along my body

carrying me as I glide over

the dusky emptiness

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night music

While putting together a collection of music for a friend, I got stuck on Nick Drake. To be exact, on Bryter Layter. And writing a little anecdote for said friend, explaining why I’d chosen this album, I relived the times I described and it suddenly became so real and so overwhelming that I couldn’t go on and am now, on an autumnal Saturday night, at my desk, listening to the whole album and drifting somewhere between daydreaming and remembering. I will just hope that the friend in question does not read this post before I can send the music off, because I’m just going to copy what I just wrote for him half an hour ago because I can’t describe it any better:

I can’t say that I have a favourite Nick Drake album, but if I had one, I think it would be this or Pink Moon. This is my “falling-asleep-under-the-stars” album. I listened to it almost every night when I was travelling in Croatia. I’d be outside in the sun all day, hiking or swimming or reading or writing or meditating and when it started getting dark, I’d crawl into my little tent and watch the stars through the mosquito net of the open tentflap, snuggled into the sleeping bag more for comfort than warmth and I’d listen to the rustle of the wind in the pines and the creaking of wood as the earth slowly cooled down and then I’d put on my mp3-player and listen to this album very softly.

I held on to that feeling in a poem. I’ll share it below the songs, together with a photo I dedicated to the poem.

night music
night
cold stars are out
zipped in
warm and safe
in the dark
notes floating
in my ears
piano and guitar
tears fall
for lonely songs
with intricate longings
and the vulnerable voice
of a musician
who died too young
and yet can make me feel
at home
in this night

the evening cathedral

because it’s a balmy, velvety, starshining night outside and I’m remembering last year’s camping trip to the Balkans with longing, here is a poem I wrote on that trip, pretty much exactly a year ago…

. 

………………..The Evening Cathedral

……………….. Particles of dust and peace

……………….. are floating in the shafts of light

……………….. that boldly enter between

……………….. the high domes of the pine trees.

……………….. Birds are singing hymns

……………….. while angels drift golden and red

……………….. across the serene sky,

……………….. disguised as wisps of cloud.

……………….. And when dusk arrives

……………….. in its dark robe, carrying the evening star,

……………….. men and birds and rocks hold their breath,

……………….. overwhelmed by the immense stillness

……………….. as the world stops spinning for one heartbeat –

……………….. and then goes on with the business of nightfall.

.

this silent day

tiny specks of sunshine floating lazily

and dancing their slow, eternal dance

with dust flakes in the still air

 

muted, muffled noises from very far away

just drifting on the edge and mingling there

with the scent of washing powder and green tea

 

its serene lightness unwavering,

with quiet, peaceful, deadly pallor,

this silent day is casually suffocating me