Swollen Grapes Poem by Jeffrey McCambridge

Between the hidden fruits
And secret fires
The untamed mists clear
A paths, lightly tread
And unexplored.

I follow the night
And white sandy beaches
Finding the voice, soft like pillows
Fanning the flames
Kept safe from the tempest.

Only the fifth horseman knows
The secret language of fire
Like black grapes, swollen with passion
To wet the bells,
And light the world

Drawn by red oxen
And long black chains
Seeds are sown and kindled
With the special care of fox
Not without the ax.

Sweet kisses from the wind
On evenings face
Leave marks of longing
In the hearts of all
Kept hidden from the fires.

Lucky enough to glimpse
If only for a second
The spark and the flame
Secret lovers who light the night
With their wild love

Complete, and ocean among themselves
Crashing on the world
Memories of the voyage
Only in the eyes
Of the hungry waters.

Fugitive flames, what poor hope have you
In this world of water and steam,
The substance of time
Giving shape to rhythm and sound
Finding new meaning in the dance

The harbor beats to death
The costal sunrise
Roots of my soul
Reflections of absolute uncertainty
Flowing high and low

The origin of all tears
Lies between here, and hereafter;
Here, after we find
All that we lost;
Our missing pieces.

The garments of women
Clad beautifully the night
Extenuating her curves of darkness
We see even without the light
Accepting her as a guide.

Jasmine, Jasmine!
Words are useless, and names never matter
There is no translation to communicate
With the crashing waves
I speak not with the night

And together we grope
Our infidelities;
Naked, I await the word
Of the Mahdi, bringer of peace
For the rest of the world.

And wipe away the mists gathered
Around the fire visible from space
The hours of the day are like
Ripples in my soul,
Concentric circles, expanding and sinking.

We pray to the fire
And confess our secrets
To the sacredness of water
Two moist fingers signal
A secular prayer

What ceremony will rise from our ashes?
And who protects the lost
Orphan flames, charring the hearts
Of Orpheus in his trip to hell
And return alone.

The white face of the clock
Laments for Lorca,
Counting the seconds
Of his absence while finding
Shapes in the clouds.