I learned from those who became
That to see your truth at the point
When it’s not wearing any clothes
And then to write about it
Is the only true chance anyone has
At creating a bit of world peace…
For, in nakedness, we might come

And stand close
To exchange some real warmth for once.
Poetry, then, isn’t what many
don’t understand –
It is what many don’t have
The courage to do.

Fugitives (Vilhelm Bjerke-Petersen, 1943)

Swan Lake, a poem…

The Way In (Rakhi Varma)

The muezzin calls five times a day
Every day, to remind you
Of the swan lake you left
To find a final home and
A last love in a world
That never was…
It is twilight now, and see
The lake rolls with the desire of dawn
The muezzin’s call sounds again
Like a messenger from beyond
Winding each night through your sleep
To deliver a promise made…
Will you startle…and sleep again?
Or will you let it come in through your confusion
And turn your heart with its echo
Into an arching cave
That leads back to the swan lake –
Where the one lover you always wanted
Is waiting on the water, there
For you to open your eyes and see.