Snow

snow-mountains
Photo by Ant Rozetsky on Unsplash

This poem is written with relation to these quotes by Osho. Or maybe not. 🤣

“So I say to you, even to a well frog it is possible to communicate something about the sea. And if the messenger is really inventive, he can create devices to communicate. That is what a Buddha is doing, a Jesus is doing – creating devices to communicate something of the sea to well frogs. Because there is one thing in common – the water. If there is one thing in common, then connection is possible, a bridge exists.”

And this quote here could describe both the ecstacy and frustration that occur when we communicate with someone else.

“There are three hundred languages in the world and three hundred languages for rose; there is no relationship, all relationship is arbitrary. Cold is related to hot, well is related to the ocean. Their relationship, however indistinct, is there – real,  not arbitrary. But between a word and reality there is no relationship, they are not related at all. So you can have your own words, a private language, you can call anything by any name.If you like to call it something else, the rose will not fight in a court. And nobody can prove that their word is more correct than yours, nobody can prove it because no word is more correct or less correct. Words are irrelevant, they are not related.


And this snow –
born in the cold:

the shade of an old man’s beard,
marking transitions –

the pearl, glistening,
spread open, all opportune
nestled between hinges.

The untouched language
of  Indian textiles; before
purple and gold existed –

the bare glint of a pebble,
all lonely on the sand.

How could I even try
my hand at comprehending?

There’s 50 words for snow,
but no single word
to cut to the absolute bone.

Ruminate all you want,
come up with dialectics
till you go blue in the face –

but still,

 

“All this snow –
always born in the cold…”


I’m really, really enjoying this book…and really, really enjoying this rain….

Ripples

ripples-and-light-on-water-surface

An infinite keyboard,
on which raindrops
play their circular melodies –

instead of do-re-mi-fa-so,
or A-B-C-D and E

we hear ‘plip-plip-plop-plop’

and little sampans
drifting,

in their
uncertain ways.

© Zelda Reville


 

Succubus

girl-hidden-by-white-smoke

You – that guides my hand –
not towards the page;

but, slowly –
a spark softly striking –
the little firefly that hovers
in between gaps.

Deepening velvet blinds.

You – who visited,
crushing my back
in a middle of a muted scream –

you – !

© Zelda Reville


This poem was originally published here on 6 September 2017.