Invitation to an Evening Dance

Ah! What will my Roses tell you today? Old boring stories about confessions, inner forces, Prayings, Fragility and Redemtion? Perfume?! About my concern on not being able to paint you a fresh new poem on the Roses. Because I have already said so...perhaps too... much on these Beauties. I have already forgotten what it was all about. I cannot go on writing links for further reading Old Journals. And I realize it would be the death of creativity if I would even want to equal some older text of myself. Impossible. The only thing left for today is trying to look inside and outside and feel as deeply as possible, these Roses: how deep are they looking and smelling into me? Would there be any remembrance, any recognition, any mutual exchange of rhythm or teardrops or silent breathing? When we meet?

Suppose you were looking out of your window into the bright evening sky: Ah! The Eveningstar! There! And then you would add: Ohno, hey, last week I saw that Eveningstar too. This is going to become boring. Same old song again...There should be something more original in this Universe to muse on...anything would be better than that irritating star over there to write about...It is clear that someone, reacting in such a way on seeing “Venus” glittering in her cosmic splendour, is insane. We would think that such reaction would be so poor as to be given in by some kind of deep trouble. Apparently not in the mood for inspiration. Not receiving but giving it. Not even sharing for instance Mayerhofers sad and lonely Eveningstar, which “sows and sees no shoot, therefore remaining far from the others, mourning and still.”

After our Eveningstar-exercise it would be easy to transpose it to my Roses. And try to muse on: these are “My last Summer Roses in my Secret Garden”. A treasure on possible associations. Poetic examples. Famous strophes. Wild imaginations. But I’m not going to do that. Why? Because I had phrased that more fundamental question: How deep are they looking and smelling into me? In other words: how open, attentive and prepared was I, when we were or are meeting?
Well, I must confess, I was really involved in our meeting. They were the last ones reflecting the warmth of the the fading sunlight of today. So our deepest and silent communication was not about the fading summer, but on the soft nearing of the evening. Could we have a hangout between friends and lovers? Wouldn’t we desire to turn around and melt into a Rose-dance on far away rhythms and tones of a French Chanson? Can’t you see they are still whispering to me about “La Vie en Rose”?