The Muttering Retreats

this vast
white distance
between us
is beautiful

but unbearably cold

i’ve come to love these unpredictable disquiets between us

the storm came unexpectedly

and I, a lone
spectator
stood under the black skies
as the trees surrendered their
sopping, heavy leaves
to a wild autumn
wind

i have tucked away a maple leaf in my fraying copy of savage beauty. a perfection of bright reds and oranges, it floated through the autumn wind and rested in my hair as i lay reading under its mother-tree (on a particularly crisp tuesday morning last week). it will remain there, amidst Millay's beautiful words, until the white, winter days of december.

The Canadian Geese are long gone

The squirrels no longer
stir at the foot of the Maple Trees

and I have unpacked my red scarf
for a month of leaf-picking along
the mountain-edge of beautiful Montreal

the phone call came today, finally,
and though it's a month late
it made all the difference in the world

In October,
where the wind blows in stark,
cold breezes and where the trees shiver
and shed
upon these increasingly silent streets,
the world is infinitely bare
and autumn a gentle
murderer.

The lust ridden
spring with its vibrant greens
is gone. And where love once floated
unrecognized
like sheer, white
florets in yellow dandelion fields
rests now.

But it will arrive again
here, amongst these trees
that bob up
like skeletons. Now,
amidst this barren,
autumn-browned world where nothing
else remains.

The sky has been a fickle creature

Yesterday, the snow floated endlessly in the winter air resting its soft white haze on all that is silent and waiting.
But as the city slept, and day gave way to an early darkness, it was rain that drizzled from the night-sky baring a brown and lifeless world.
This morning, the sun brilliantly shines on a land sheathed in ice--beautiful, sparkling and full of danger.

October. The wind blows in soft, stark breezes. The trees shiver and shed. 
Soon, all will be bare.

If I possessed even an ounce of courage, I would have called
and asked you--ever so eloquently--to come and bathe with me
under the rays of the sun

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year's bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.
There are a hundred places where I fear
To go - so with his memory they brim.
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, 'There is no memory of him here!'
And so stand stricken, so remembering him.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

'good' is an understatement!
The burst of energy one exhibits at the end of a slowly-advancing path can hardly be described with words. I can say 'gratifying', 'bewildering', 'awe inspiring', 'explosive'... but none of them can actually (adequately) represent the possible barrage of feeling.
I can safely say though that the amount of gushing fluids will speak wonders where words often fail ;)

Under the blazing sun, I watch as Montreal emerges from beneath its gentle white sheathe.
And a wonderful man who gives hugs to strangers is standing next to the Mont-Royal metro today. I plan to put on my boots and head his way soon.

Unfamiliar hugs can be surprisingly mending.

Adieu, mille fois bonne, mille fois chère, mille fois aimée

-The Portrait of Zélide

A note for those of you who choose to befriend me: Some of my posts include an element of erotica/vivid sexual descriptions. If you find my occasional discussion about my sexual habits/body parts offensive, please refrain from adding me to your friend's list.

Your tone, darling, it too painful for my distant heart to bear. You lure me closer with your eloquence and with this sadness I must mend.
Perhaps a few more words... But a few more words only mean more to come. And yet...

My weakened heart shall speak of love and sex, and of things long gone. 

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock is one of the most amazing poems ever written. I was about to site some of my favorite lines, but felt that I might rob the poem of its magnificence.


- T.S. Elliot (1888 - 1965). Prufrock and Other Observations. 1917.

Small wind-breezes tap against the window of this lonely  apartment in downtown Montreal. And this noise--which is much like the song of an old, broken wind-chime on a breezy autumn day--is amongst the many charms of my new little life.
I rap my scarf around my neck, tuck my hair into a warm hat and slip my hands into a pair of gray-wool mittens before making my way over the creaking wood. I open the door, descend the stairs and step outside into the forever falling snow of this magical island-city.
The world is a winter-wonderland--white and beautiful--forcing the crowds into a quickening pace against its breezy air.

In the distance, a little boy stands amidst a cluster of birds tossing handfuls of corn nearby a metro station, and softly singing 'Noel Noel'. His father stands steps away fumbling with a camera.

I turn up my collar, tuck my mittened hands deep into my pockets and softly sigh--a warm breath that drifts and curls and disappears into the falling darkness of this wondrous, new world.

Oh, how I love being here!

I think I'm in love with this poem:

- W.B Yeats

Life has been packed with frenzy and excitement here in this little Burlington house. I've been preparing for Christmas in the UAE, and then a long-term move to Montreal (I anticipate at least 2 years).
Sometimes, the fullness of events drowns out my excitement--I write myself notes around the house to help remind me of the greatness the unknown brings. Sporadic moments of glee keep me going through endless packing and saying goodbye to what's left of my life over here.
Soon, my brother will move-out into his own (already bought) apartment and the house will go up for sale. Soon, there will be no home to come back to in Burlington. Soon my life will change again, perhaps almost as drastically as it did that day I wheeled my carry-on bag away from my dad (who stood waving goodbye mournfully).
How things have changed since that day ten years past.