The Smile of the Unvanquished

the harrowing sound of grit as it grinds its way through the narrow neck of the hourglass; blind and pitiless time digs its own grave - from a solitary dune, slowly sinking in the murmuring ripples of quicksand, waits like a young lapwing, the spirit for his sublime opportunity - gliding over the eddying thermals his wingspan carries him alongside the languishing mirages drawn upon a vacant canvas. though he renounces all enchantments and the burning flush in the groins which would asphyxiate him in the dust bath of his impermanence. indeed his calling lies beyond the gloss, past the dreaded entrails of entropy, there about where the north star beckons, and the horizon dances with fire.

From where the sun scorches the soil to gold dust, drawn by white horses over roiling cold waters, a silver needle plunged into rock hard bedding - as green blood was spilled, the morning star withdrew, the horizon blushed; dewed petals quenched their glumness with juvenile fire.  

met smartelijk geknars vliedt het gruis door de nauwe hals van de zandloper; blind en zonder erbarmen graaft de tijd haar eigen graf -- vanuit een eenzame duintop, langzaam zinkend in de ruisende rimpeling van het drijfzand, wacht als een jonge kievit, onze geest op het sublieme ogenblik - glijdend over de wervelende thermiek voert zijn vleugelspan hem langszij de ijdele smachten aftekenend op de hemelspiegel - maar hij verzaakt aan alle verleidingen en de roes dat brandt in zijn kruis en hem zou verstikken in de schilfers van zijn eigen vergankelijkheid. immers zijn roeping ligt voorbij de glans, doorheen alle kerkers, waar de poolster wenkt, en de horizon danst met vuur.

As I came across a contest to send in a haiku themed around sixties cult gothic soap opera ' Dark Shadows ', I set myself immediately up to the task and wrought a threesome of haikus. While used to write poems - in English, which is not my native language, which is Dutch - haikus demand a trifle more concentration and effort from me, and I am not sure whether I get the count of syllables correctly, as the way my Flemish ear hears and interprets them from spoken, might be entirely different to whom is English is his or her mothertongue.  The fey and rain-soaked atmosphere outside the kitchen window at this moment (I live in Scotland, my adopted new homestead) served my purpose and colours the mood found in these haikus which I had offered for the prize draw. The first one is serviceable but probably off the mark regarding the requirements of a haiku (a pseudo-haiku so-to-say), but all three together are now crafted anyway into a full-bodied poem of my own whims...

Eyes wide open, drink from a gossamer pool of peaty light  timidly nibbling at the hem of flailing shadowy brutes: a night of grief rolls in over this cajoling pair - their language echoes the sigh of the sea, whimpering in vain against brooding shores.