the muse of muses – your goldsmith of words

your goldsmith of words

(to embeth the muse of muses)

« Viens-tu du ciel profond ou sors-tu de l’abîme,

Ô beauté ? Ton regard, infernal et divin,

Verse confusément le bienfait et le crime,

Et l’on peut pour cela te comparer au vin… »

-Baudelaire (Hymne a la Beauté a Les Fleurs du mal)


i was not ready for you when we first collided


i remain the piano upon which the maestro dreams

the overtones of your virtuosity kindle my passion

so many unprocessed wounds festering in my harts


but you opened your harts to mine once and so always

we live beyond distorted memories and cheap expectations

between souls forged in deeper silence there is no abyss

we carry something forward when we surrender to love

salvation rests not upon destruction but reincarnation


so our symphonies always end with recapitulations

within which unfolds our always richer virtuosity

lovers pilgrimaging into nothing if not into higher love so

the many become not one but oneness emerging if merely

to embrace tragic deaths so passionately as fragile births then


these grotesque forms reveal those majestic symmetries

here there are triangular consolations of water earth and fire

but beyond these is not just kabbalah but also les miserables

the highest wisdom is revealed in the messianic eyes of paradox

so jesus still hangs on a sword planted in margarita’s fertile tears


as amidst many unreconciled conflicts nesting in our hart of harts

we limp from one mirage to the next oasis of dis-satisfaction

perhaps now prodigal titania pilgrims home to her then beloved oberon

so then do not overtones of such compassion as this kindle our genius


am i not the piano-forte upon which your fingers play

perhaps now your silence and my movement commence our wedding

if i am not always your logos then are we never your goldsmith of words

is it not so there is nothing unconditional nothing compassionate except we


we are still but not yet ready to die until your lips seal mine with holy fire ma cherié


soon perhaps we are able to see ourselves in the mirror of mysterious love perhaps soon


“Late have I loved you, O Beauty as Ancient so Fresh too late have I loved You!

You are outside me but i am inside you and it is here where i search for We.

In my unloveliness i plunge into the lovely creatures your womb creates.

You are within us as your creatures are never not not within you Beloved.”

-Saint Augustine (Translation, cmv)


marc chrétien valentin

(© 1 mai 2014)



This entry was posted in Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s