antelucan:

The beginning of the rain is slow, subtle.
Like stolen, soft kisses in the dark.
A peck here, there.
Sighs that go unheard
when one least expect them.
Immaculate, innocent words tinged
with the beginning of passion.
Sometimes it dies with dusk,
sometimes it lingers.
Breaths of the dying, leaving memories
where it shouldn’t be.
The soft beginning,
the fleeting ending 
of the bluest sky.
Most subtle, most poignant.
That is how it is. 

COPYRIGHT © LYDIANE AGUSTINUS 2011

Written while waiting for the bus. The first raindrops were the softest.

I find no wisdom in everything I do lately, just little comforts.

Tonight someone asked where the moon was and all four heads turned upward. ‘There,’ someone said, ‘there’s the moon.’ Like a pleasant, repetitive theme, I was the one who stood closer to a tree, watching the waxing moon through leaves and branches. Little comfort, see. 

‘Come up with a poem, quick,’ I heard Ava say to no one in particular. I smiled at the irony then replied, ‘Many had done that before us.’ Tsila started singing in a small voice, an old song from an old film — a song of night, of moon, of owls that yearn for the moon night after night. And it was at that very moment that I realised that it is possible to break the moon into pieces — glowing dusts last, to be inhaled and to let the pale glow consume us all until we are all illuminated beings.

With poetry, anything is possible.

I.

Sometimes the girl on the moon
withholds the last part of the truth.

Tonight I’m going to let it shine,
she says,
(but what I’m not telling you is
that I’m going to let it hide behind clouds.)

There is no half moon,
it is already whole—
don’t delude yourself.

II.

The stoic face of a father
staring into his cup
in the afternoon
will forever be a wonder.

The cake is conspicuously absent,
so are the kisses. 

I’m sorry there isn’t a cake
on your table, daddy—
your daughter is not made of
most affectionate bones
(mummy says I got it from you). 

III.

To the ends of the earth
you will go,
says the girl on the moon.
Lost and hidden,
ghostlings and phantoms,
these variations of love.
Seek them, seek them
don’t return until the moon
is broken into two halves—
which is never. 

I’m going to pick a day
my letter-writing day.
I’d say Tuesday,
for that is my birth day;
but then there is Friday,
forever my favourite day.

Unfinished; for there truly isn’t a word for everything

Dearest flower 
born of most ardent light—
these peculiar sounds 
from stringed instruments 
are for you

                (Oh, dearest flower
                words are never enough,
                making what little words I have the extent of everything.)

I

There are things that are kind to the
skin. Like water and highlighter, like
fleeting kisses and lasting imprints.

II

People keep things in their pockets to
remember but often forget about the seams.
Mind and mend the seams, always.

III 

Do not speak of your bones as if you
know them better than your own heart:
bones are never lonely. Count them.

IV

My lover was a sailor who left many a frosty
morning ago and lost in the sea not long after,
never to return. And so I shall marry the sea. 

V

We do not have the knowledge of a
half-stripped tree in the winter.
Be kind.

1. You saw the pumpkin but not the cat that was sitting on it.
2. Always going always leaving never staying large momentum: you.
3. I cannot remember the first twenty elements; after helium, I’ll probably start sobbing.
4. You see that the sky is blue and let it be. The why is lost.
5. I disappear into the wall behind me whenever you are present.
6. (And no, you never notice.)
7. The bluebird in your chest is cold.