Friday, February 4, 2011

Earthy Elegance: le chasseur de truffes

Reminiscent of the candelabra
that light the dining guest
On the eve of the first full moon
after the crocus bloom.


Evening flights and daytime rambles -
Here I am between two rhythms
The season approaches and it gives
me the greatest pleasure
The trees grow entangled
their brambles overlap
Where the thickens part,
I follow this path
I am returning
to the forsaken places of my loves.
Nimble, curious, resourceful
like the leprechaun
I obey the rules of the fairy tales
Outside a diminutive unmarked door
offers no sign to passerby
For the creator needs his privacy --
inside masses of dried grasses,
feathers and seedpods,
pine cones and pretty stones. 
What emerges from these
ominous roots and bulb
when they‘re at home?
They sleep and think
 I sleep and that
my awaking awakens them
 Their torpor condemns them
to taste nothing
but the musky organic
disregard of grace poetry
that is at our fingers tips.
The phantasmagoria of thirst
and lingering echoes
spurs me to dig deep into my past
Exposing all to see
I unearth a tuber – 
with its earth still clinging to it.

I draw closer to the terrible
mysteries of love,
by doing what I chose to do,
Now I know my rhythm
---The truffle hunter.---

Fin

Earthy Elegance: le chasseur de truffes

Reminiscent of the candelabra 
that light the dining guest 
on the eve of the first full moon
after the crocus bloom

Evening flights and daytime rambles -
Here I am between two rhythms
The season approaches and it gives 
me the greatest pleasure
 
The trees grow entangled 
their brambles overlap
Where the thickens part,
I follow this path
I am returning 
to the forsaken 
places of my loves.

Nimble, curious, resourceful
like the leprechaun
I obey the rules of the fairy tales --
Outside a diminutive unmarked door
offers no sign to passerby
For the creator needs his privacy --
inside masses of dried grasses,
feathers and seedpods,
pine cones and pretty stones. 

What emerges from these
ominous roots and bulb
when they‘re at home?
They sleep and think I sleep
and that my awaking awakens them 

Their torpor condemns them to taste
nothing but the musky organic
disregard of grace poetry 
that is at our fingers tips.

The phantasmagoria of thirst and lingering echoes
spurs me to dig deep into my past
I unearth a tuber– 
with its earth still clinging to it.
I draw closer
to the terrible mysteries of love,
Now I know my rhythm
---The truffle hunter.
Fin

photo credits: !- arredamento giardino epoca , tumblr #3 rodney smith girl in fog, #6  eugenio recunco-snow white, #7 tumblr-tree tureen,#9 truffle farmhand