carnforth

Spent three lovely days in the country side of UK with my best friend Beth. Pumpkin carving, pumpkin pie, pumpkin soup, also many other cooked deliciousnesses. Slept three wonderfully sleep-filled nights with their springer spaniel Murphy. Right in the middle of the visit, we went to the lake district in the north:

Sticklebarn Tavern

laughter slips

through the crack in the white framed glass

to a wet world of stone and wood

rain drizzled

the mountain stands strong and green.

walled but free, wanderers step within its bounds

lofty brush struggles to reach the top,

where no man stands as tall

another wall far below leads to unwanted fields

no cattle, no sheep here

only trees--

some ready for the coming of the cold

a narrow road leading to this house of ale and pie

two plates under an awning

devoured by hungry travelers and hound.

clouds move in over lonely summer tables

reaching down to brush the hilltops

as they blow by on their way back to sea,

leaving only more wet, more moss--green and slick

growing in a valley

untouched by most

undevoured by man and his machines

mighty among the few brave and lucky enough

to discover its greatness.

down the way, a world stands by

ready to conquer another day

unaware of a small tavern

with the delicious meals it has to offer

for the mouth and the eyes.

suddenly, atop a rock

halfway up

i am confronted

with the true power of this landscape

greater than of any painters

the hills stand like towers

stronger than any brush stroke

the stream is louder than its own water

man can tame these rolling grounds

with his walls and his gates

but even the bravest hound

cannot place his off in its hidden secrets

too great are they to ever be found

only seen from a distance

and imagined

a promised land of unmoved earth

persistent in its attempt

to remain alien

to remain unknown.

I found my sheep

when I found my girl

feet slipped into rubber boots

and a smile to wide to explain

water rushes by like a tube ride

but this belongs to nature

man must know this

he is not here unless he ventures for a visit

only attempting to take with him what he has seen

the sheep themselves do not believe

though they continue to graze

their mission in a world they can never understand

that I can never understand

only marvel at

and stand for a few short breaths

smelling the sweet view

delighting in its seductive power

sunday afternoon in BERLIN with christopher

Matilda

a magical girl behind a counter

eyes welcoming with the biggest smile

twin disks spin a small bug's song.

no one in the back,

thirsty visitors gather

at small square wooden tables

with fresh light pink blossoms

3 sprigs stuck in to bridge the seasons

that smile, those eyes

the way her hair falls in strands over her soft face

from across the room my gaze

finds nothing and no one but her

like my mother she serves champagne to a young mother

her two friends looking on

made old by their friend's possession

two lovers, under the lamplight of the corner

retire from their plates

to love the literature they kiss over

a secret to sacred to skip

shared; then another bite

just in; bearded, leather

soft voice-making Matilda smile-

for him, a coffee, cookie first

by the window, a girl with a pencil fills in the blanks

reading carefully, signs her name and folds her life in threes

now, a neighbor

a newspaper in another tongue

he and Matilda share a short love letter aloud

and she kisses her sister once on each cheek

as if the sun rose twice today

once for the world

and once for Matilda

a sliver of sky

near trees

still green with spring

white balconies project

littered with nature

placed with care on the edge

mimicking the green

they stand by

over a white umbrella

despite the clouds

by boards, chalky

with offers and with price

but the street comes without price

a free special to strollers

on a Sunday afternoon

buying young vegetables

in bike baskets

and showing their

freed hounds the crisp day

on Dieffenbachstraße

I understand my father more now. Partly from Freud, though I have no desire to kill, eat, and replace him with myself-but mostly from my lone travels. Like his adventures and disappearances, I find myself learning most alone. Content to watch a duck exploring his water as ambulance sirens pass and runners' feet jog by on the moist earth. On a Serra-like jetty over the Spree lies before me a bullet ravaged monument: three men in struggle, forcing themselves into each other, pyramidal over the deep waters and the passing barge. Behind them lies Berlin, in her glory-tall, proud, under construction. Someday I will tell these stories-unbelievable-to an eager ear. Listeners curious of another place-another time even. I will be back, but these are the true discoveries. Like my father, on his bike-searching for the quiet and the noise. Finding both-in utmost perfection-before peddling back to the world given to me by helping hands. Unprotected now, I log my journey in hopes of crystallizing it into my own forgotten history. To share this with him would be an honor.

-

Treptower Park

East Berlin's Disneyland

crumbled with the wall

overgrown and underused

children's voices still squealing from fun

now a fence runs its edge

a wall destroyed-a wall empoloyed

only earth and stone paths

provide a glimpse into the wonder

a fantastical world made dark

by the dawning of a new era

a giant wheel with no motor

train tracks buried by leaves and branch

dinosaurs toppled and games switched off

A fossil, long forgotten by most.

but a tell tale sign of what was

and what wasn't

behind a wall.

drugs and stereotypes

Depression in 3rd world countries: does it exist? What about in aboriginal cultures? Forest tribes of Africa who wear loincloths? Do they chemically alter their mentally "weaker/challenged/different" members? If so, is it natural?

Assuming that these people do not have the same relation or understanding of mental illness, is mental illness and its accompanying drug/pharmaceutical industry a creation of capitalism? I don't watch that much German television, but when I do I see NO commercials for anti-anxiety, depression, or even birth control. Drugs are not on TV. Even prescription. I haven't needed to buy any medication since I've been here, but have heard that at APOTHEKEs (pharmacies) all of the available medicines are herbal. I had my mother and matthew bring me Sudafed, Benadryl, and Claritin, perhaps because of my belief that it is necessary to put these things into my body immediately when I feel any symptom of in-normality. My Literature teacher here, Esther Dischereit, who is a premier feminist and German-Jewish writer in Germany, has a new fix for our illness every week: a boiled potato or onion to the ear, fresh boiled ginger tea, eating an entire lemon, etc.

Have we been tricked by our consumerist societal values into accepting that chemical alteration or quick pharmaceutical remedies are not only the easiest way to get better, but absolutely necessary?

New York and Berlin don't seem that far apart. They are both in developed countries with global awareness and supply a life that depends on the global economy, import/export, and communication with multiple cultures, but there is something about New York that limits its ability to give people their own voice. Perhaps by giving its citizens "freedoms" American people have forgotten about how to explore everything that is available to them and instead seek only comfort and contentment. We are obsessed with finding love, with material wealth, and with creating the perfect beautiful living environment. Even if these are not ideals that we incorporate into our everyday practice and goals, they are part of our existence. They are ideals that we respect, admire, and--whether actively or not--strive for.

Berliners (though so far limited in my exposure to them) find Americans disgustingly commercial. They are terrified and nauseous at the thought of Wal-Mart as Christmas time: the very idea that American capitalism feeds on. To the people of Berlin, stereotype is a word that is often at the forefront of conversation. "Are there stereotypes of Germans?" they might ask. This question, I believe is actually combatting the numerous stereotypes held by most Germans--and almost entirely rightly so--against the American clichés that they have come to know so well. America consists of East and West: the middle is a land of conservatism, lack of culture, and religious rule. American's don't know their own politics. Americans take ten day trips to see the entirety of Europe. Americans still live in a land of segregation in which black and white people have their own individual proms.

...Looking at this list, I can't really meet any of those stereotypes with a strong case to defend the land of the free and the brave. Makes us seem pretty trapped and cowardly actually.

Here's some stereotypes of Germans. These aren't mine; they were in the handbook given to us by NYU in Berlin:

Germans are stiff and formal and hard to make friends with.

Germans are always neat, well-organized, and on time.

Germans lack humor and don't know how to enjoy themselves.

Germans are gruff, constantly nagging know-it-alls.

Stereotypes are strong. They have reason to exist. They also cover up our ability to reach each other. So do chemically altering drugs.

I didn't mean to go on a huge rant about the differences between my culture and the one in which I'm living, but I actually can't think of anything better to do right now.

Our own limitations, whether a cultural predisposition to something different or a drug that defines the spectrum of our emotions to a restricted and socially acceptable range, hold us back from reaching one another. In response we must build bridges to the opposite banks from which we stand. Whether this means crossing the Atlantic, having coffee with someone who we struggle to communicate with, listening to an earnest politician for the first time, deciding to find alternate means of happiness and fulfillment, seeing a piece or collection of art that challenges our conventional tastes, allowing ourselves to fully feel and express an extreme emotion, or simply learning one new fact a day, everyone has the opportunity in front of them to take control of their own lives--expanding themselves personally, in their community, and as a citizen of the world.

We can overcome the need for chemical alteration and the existence of stereotype by rising above what is considered the standard. Who wants to be a standard? In high school, isn't standard a "C?" We should all take our mother's advice and strive for an "A", no matter if we work in an office in Milwaukee, direct a theater company in New York, play a drum in a rural African tribe, or develop technology in Japan (all of which are considered stereotypes).

contemporary art with german placards

Hamburger Bahnhof (trainstation) was built and first used as a terminal in the mid 1800s. It went out of train service by the beginning of the twentieth century, survived the war, and opened as the Nationalgalerie's institution for contemporary art in 1996.

Thursday afternoons and evenings happen to be free art time in Berlin. Last week I only made it in for about twenty minutes before they closed at 18:00, but this time I left myself a good hour and a half and had ample time to wander the hallways and let my brain get lost in the hallways and pieces and installations.

Entering the grounds of the Hamburger Bahnhof, I am immediately struck by the bright yellow and red flags flying atop the two towers above the doorway. "Die Kunst ist Super!" ("The art is super!), they boast. This colorful, fluttering beckoning along with Dan Flavin's usual neon/fluorescent installation on one side of the courtyard is sure to ward off anyone who thinks they are about to see Kirchner or Schiele (or any German artist whose work dates prior to the radical artistic revolutions beginning in the 1960s). This is delightful for me.

Walking through the large wooden doors, before me stands what was once the main train platform area. Completely gutted, no trains run here now, but the architectural elements of a grand German train station are still elegantly accentuated in this main hall. Large metal trellised beams, high vaulted arches, and beautiful sectioned skylights and windows make this cavernous space a stark but inviting first major work to view in the museum and as a taste of what lies behind the walls of the impressive heart of this museum. With white walls, open space, Helvetica fonts, and names like Jeff Koons, Andy Warhol, Sol Le Witt, and Robert Smithson, I was immediately reminded of my favorite art museum--the DIA: Beacon art institute in Beacon, NY, about an hour and a half north of the city.

I must admit I'm on a visual hunt for all things ZOLA. That is to say, I'm looking for inspiration everywhere for my next theatrical directing venture, Emile Zola's naturalistic thriller Therese Raquin. For me, the Hamburger Bahnhof left only a small bit of disappointment in visual and emotional stimulation. This mostly derived from my own difficulty finding a comfortable way to take the museum in. It wasn't until I reached my third hall of perhaps five that I got into a groove and started being drawn into the work. Part of this is surely my own issue, but it is also definitely the primary responsibility of the museum to curate their work in a way that is as inclusive, critical, and thought provoking as possible. Something was missing in the curatorial continuity here.

Here's a few notables from my trip through Hamburger Bahnhof:

DANIEL SPOERRI's table setting turned on its side and mounted on the wall- a ghostly remnant/preserved moment of a communal experience that has been stolen from its proper place in time

PAUL PFEIFFER's half constructed football stadium combined with a 90 degree reflective/translucent wall provides a full 360 degree view of a scale model of a gigantic sports palace; his next room is completely empty but for the enormous soundscape of the inside of a football stadium coming from approximately 10-15 speakers placed around the room in juxtaposition to a small 5cmx5cm screen playing footage of a major football game at the far end of the space- an interesting and awe inspiring comment on the feeling that is created when thousands of people come together to celebrate a competitive sport versus the small taste received through digital/visual means

ABSALON's Ceullule II installation- an abode all in white, created only of pure cubic geometric shapes (cubes, rectangles, cylinders, etc) that is perfectly proportioned to accommodate one person; viewing the prototype from the inside is claustrophobically frustrating as is his video installation: a self videoportrait of himself screaming repetitively from the inside one of his creations. Absalon died from AIDS at 28 in 1993 before fulfilling his vision of installing prototypes of his personal living space in at least five cities

OTTO ZITKO's line and symbol painting on all four sides of an intermittent room provides color to an otherwise empty wall-canvas and through chaos creates an incredibly effective and simple continuity of space

DIETER/BJÖRN/ODDUR ROTH's gardensculpture started as a decomposable head bust of bird seeds and has grown through generations into a piece over 40m long- its rustic ladders, windows, and various pieces of junk created a treehouse without the tree and in the middle of a warehouse space (the claim of containing live bunnies proved untrue...)

RODNEY GRAHAM's two video installations--one of a typewriter being slowly covered in snow and one of a slowly turning chandelier--demonstrated how much I adore an old, loud, complicated 16mm projection machine

RICHARD ARTSCHAGER's "No Exit" hallway stretched the entire length of the museum's main wing with overhead light globes reading a simple red EXIT the entire length of the corridor

PIPILOTTI RIST's video installation didn't do much for me but his oversized red nylon couch and armchair gave me a laugh as I watched people watching his work--I was reminded of the power of proportion

ROBERT KUSMIROWSKI's Transition corridor mimicked the modern underground Berlin train station with some simple tape lines and eggshell paint (almost trump l'oeil)

MATTHEW BARNEY's video installation of the first part of his five section film The Cremaster Cycle reminded me that I need more of him in my life: So do you

A question formed in my mind as I views work after work entitled Ohne namen (untitled) that are so common in contemporary art museums. Someone important to me recently suggested a theory that music is only pure when it has no title and no words. Otherwise, I presume we are introducing implied or imposed meanings on something that otherwise exists in some uninfluenced--though still human developed--form. These pure works are supposed to be representations of emotional states--those of the artists turmoil or overwhelming love or whatever else. If this is the case for music, could one argue that it is necessary for visual art as well? In that case what about theater? Are we even looking for a pure form in theater? Without words and titles wouldn't theater be dance? So what's the difference?

I could go on.

Ultimately, my thoughts and experience here today reinforced the fact that DIA: Beacon is my favorite museum in the world. I wish I could go there today. Right now. If you are one of my long lost loves in NYC right now, please put down what you are doing, buy your MTA Metro North daycation pass to Beacon (including museum admission) and run--don't walk--to the most amazing day in a museum you will ever have. Seriously though, if you have a Saturday or Sunday free, NOW is the time to visit this unbelievably beautiful town on the Hudson with a contemporary art museum and collection that will absolutely blow your mind.

A very important teacher begged me to go here once, and since I did 1 year ago, now I'm begging you. It's actually a no brainer.

For now, I will fulfill my contemporary art yearnings by visiting this delightful museum with its own impressive collection of thought provoking works.

TR: FRÜLINGS ERWACHEN

Frülings Erwachen

Wedekind’s masterful play, written ca. 1889, comes jaunting to the stage at the Berliner Ensemble with a cast of talented Shauspieler and a simple and poigniant design that pleases both the senses and the intellect at every turn.

My familiarity with Frank Wedekind’s Spring Awakening began with the Broadway production of the same name that came to the into the NYC spotlight after an impressive run at the off-Broadway Atlantic Theater Company. When I first saw this production—with music by pop star Duncan Sheik and book (adaptation) by Stephen Sater—it was an impressive new genre of musical for commercial theater with a cast of energetic, sexy, potential superstar young actors with voices that took Sheik’s music to the next level. All this changed when the producers realized how much money they could make by simplifying and “Disney-fying” this revolutionary new musical. The resulting production—which I also witnessed—lost not only its charm and depth, but it’s integrity.

The story of this handful of ill-informed German school students and their stifling Puritanical elders is all to familiar to every American theater-goer and twelve year old girl, but this is truly a story—a piece of literature—that everyone who hits puberty should read.

Wendla Bergmann is just turning thirteen and resists her mother’s attempt to put her in a longer, blacker, more conservative (ie “grownup”) dress. To her mother’s dismay, she is allowed to keep her kurz, weiß (short, white) dress for another spring season—a decision that will ultimately lead the play to its tragic turn. Melchior Gabor obviously has an infatuation with Wendla—this does not go unnoticed by the young girl and her giggling friends—although mingling of boys and girls is frowned upon at this dangerous age. Despite the fact that the children once played together, the awakening of their “urges” makes contact taboo. Melchior has an amusing scene as he helps his troubled friend Moritz Stiefel understand the joys of self pleasure and tries to explain that it is normal to have “phantoms” of the fairer sex. As Mortiz’s thoughts distract him from school and he is kicked out of the academy, Melchior and Wendla’s romance intensifies as they begin to meet behind their parents disapproving backs. Wendla’s mother has a hilarious time trying to explain where babies come from to her curious daughter—ultimately landing with “a man and a woman must love each other very much.” With this answer in mind, Wendla thinks nothing of Melchior’s rape because he vows that he does not love her. Meanwhile, Moritz decides it is better to take his own life. His childhood friend Ilsa catches him in the act and tries to persuade him otherwise by sharing about her newfound personal and sexual freedom. But the constraints of his society get the best of him, and he ends his life as we end act one. His funeral is a decisive moment for the audience in seeing the dynamic between young person and authority, but provides no real resolve for the characters: the surviving boys stand confused and alone while their elders mock the death of their strange friend and leave with a cackling, sickening laugh. Melchior has his own trouble when his teachers discover his “anatomical” drawings, and he is sent to a reformatory school in Britain. Wendla comes down with stomach pains and her mother painfully confronts her with the truth of the situation: “You have a child!” The play comes to a close as Melchior discovers Wendla’s grave in the cemetery. Then the play takes a strange turn. Mortiz, along with the philosophical person of (perhaps) Wedekind himself appear to Melchior in the graveyard and take the momentum out of what is otherwise an intensely tragic and climactic ending.

The Berliner Ensemble’s production of the original play retains every bit of integrity that Wedekind’s play begs its staging to uphold. The children are played by young actors with real chops for their art and a depth of understanding for their characters that goes beyond the pop star attitude of their musical counterparts. Particularly touching performances here include Hanschen’s late night love affair with a post card of Desdemona, Thea’s hilarious and flawless depiction of a young girl yearning to dawn pink from head to toe, and Moritz Stiefel’s troubled—and troubling—version of a boy who is misunderstood and loses hope.

Most of the adults are played in a style that presents them as goofy, antiquated, and clown-like aliens. They appear much less frequently than their children, but it is quite evident that the stifling of knowledge to youngsters produces correspondingly stifled adults. All stars from the old folk include Ms. Gabor’s tedious but emotional four-page letter to Moritz that ends with a simple sigh and the Headmaster’s challenged assistant—overworked and underdressed (his vest popped open as he sauntered around the stage opening and closing windows)—who almost feels remorse when Melchior is caught trying to “artistically” understand his own physiology.

The design for this struggle between the generations generally stays out of the crossfire here. Sounds were limited to wind, rain, thunder, and birds—essential sound to any spring. No music was even needed to accentuate the incredible noise made by the depth of the ensemble’s characters. The costumes—all in black and white until Ilsa’s entrance in prostitute pink—emphasized the children’s physical development by showing their stretching seams and shortening sleeves. The set was brilliantly simple and effective. It consisted almost exclusively of four electronic rotating flats—white on one side and black on the other—that became a character in and of themselves—whether twisting wildly in the spring wind or turning slowly and dauntingly just before Moritz’s suicide scene—until they grandly fell to the floor to create the uneven landscape of the cemetery. Lighting was as simple and as blunt as Wedekind’s language. Blue-white tints and light rose hints bounced off the bright white surfaces of the set and gaunt pale faces of the actors.

Ultimately my reaction to this piece was similar to that of my reaction to the musical version in the states. I left invigorated by the compelling story and inspired (if not a bit jealous) by the energetic performances of young actors who are obviously doing what they love on the stage while also sharing a story of love, misunderstanding, tragedy, loss, and—mostly, of growing up.

Theater Review: MEIN KAMPF

NUDITY! FAIRIES! QUEENS! HITLER! AND A LIVE CHICKEN!

This is what you get when you see the Berliner Ensemble's rep production of George Tabori'sMein Kampf. No this is not the infamous A. Hitler's Mein Kampf (My struggle/fight), though you will find him onstage here...in one form or another. Entering the Probühne behind the main playing house of the BE, an actor is sweeping the stage under a sweeping ceiling scrim. The play starts with a snow storm upstage accompanied by sweeping music. Here is where the sweeping stops. Tabori's "kampf" is that his FARCE gets bogged down with tedious, high brow German humor and only finds traces of farcical style that will "kampf" its way in later in the evening.

As the play begins Shlomo Hertzl and Lobkowitz chat about Shlomo's book and settle on the title Mein Kampf as Adolph hitler arrives in traditional Austrian attire looking for a place to stay. He insults the two Jewish men, but the diatribe is generally light hearted and he is offered a bed to sleep in. Hitler goes to look for a job--without pants, thanks to Sholmo--and is disappointed when no one will give him employment. The following day, Hitler is sent out of the house while Schlomo receives a visit from his close friend Gretchen who arrives and promptly removes all her clothing. Schlomo resists any contact because of his religious guilt, even when Gretchen offers him the opportunity to fondle her hymen. Soon we realize that the two are good friends as Gretchen offers him a gift of a live chicken, Mitzi.

Here is where the performance began to show its slack for me. I've always been told that when you put a live animal on stage it immediately distracts from the action going on, so I decided that now would be a good time to test this theory. Results: chickens like to shit, alot. They also have four talons on each foot. They are not particularly frightened by people though they prefer to stay away from bright lights. Perhaps animals on stage do provide some solace to theatergoers not prolific in the language of the play.

In the second act Death comes to visit. In this play Death is a real Drag--literally a drag queen in this production--and she comes to collect Hilter. He manages to escape because he happens to be in the bathroom "taking, apparently, the hardest shit since Luther saw the devil in the privy." Death leaves vowing to return, and in the next and final scene, Schlomo awakens to a dream in which Hitler, Gretchen, and five Hitler like henchman present him breakfast in bed and ask for his completed book, Mein Kampf. Schlomo cannot produce the book because he hasn't yet written it and as payback for his shortfall, the one of the Hitlers prepares "Mitzi Schnitzel" in a monologue that combines home cooking shows and torture in a hilariously dark and uncomfortable performance. Death returns just in time to take Hitler away and the play ends as Lobkowitz returns, takes a bite of chicken, and makes a crucifixion joke.

Hitler is certainly a hot topic for any visitor to Germany, and this play afforded me many opportunities to think about how he is portrayed. In the play he was often times depicted as a fool--from drinking/spilling problems to choking fits and ridiculous noise making. Quite regularly Hitler was played as Homosexual as well--whether stomping in his long johns or "short shorts" or wrapping his legs around Schlomo with slight thrusts whilst he gets a shave. Somewhere in all this I was led to believe that perhaps Germans really enjoy watching Hitler mocked and made fun of--hell I was right there with him. I couldn't help feeling a little bad for the actor--talented though he is--who must daily walk the streets of Berlin resembling the leader of the third Reich.

During intermission, I spoke to the girl sitting next to me who happened to be the prompter for this production. I was fascinated to hear that at every production of the Berliner Ensemble a prompter sits in the first row and follows along the script. Often the actors help each other on stage, but in the case of complete forgetfulness, this prompter will actually call out a line (or perhaps mouth it?). In any case, this fact only reinforced my fascination with the fantastic company that is the BE. Each play is only produced three to four times a month and it must take an incredible crew to make the daily changes necessary in sets, lights, costume transport, signage and advertisement, and overall mentality. Not to mention the actors. In the four plays I've seen here now, I've managed to make connections of an actor to another show in each different production. The intricate web of jobs must be an amazing one, and no easy feat to carry out so as not to run into any problems. I truly admire their system, especially when considering the quality of their work.

Having read Tabori's Mein Kampf I know that it is rich in humor and allusion. I know that in the end their are connections made between the Jewish faith and people and their involvement in Hitler gaining power despite their strength. I know that the play is deeply touching and ultimately silly. Farce is the form that I understand this play to be on paper, but something about the energy coming from the actors (and from the audience, to be fair) didn't bring this play to the heightened level at which it could have been performed. Everything felt and looked very late 1920's/early 1930's but when Schlomo pulled out a modern electronic thermometer to take Hitler's temperature, I shouldn't have spent more than five seconds pondering why this prop stuck out among the fairly consistent design up to this point. Somewhere among the numerous captivating directing choices, the director lost his sense of farcical edge and depended too much on the language without directing the action. The result resulted in moments of flat performance.

I'm always taken for a ride during curtain calls in Germany. No matter the quality of the production (at least as far as I have seen), the audience claps in apparent appreciation for at least three minutes solid--sometimes more like eight--and the actors, in turn bow over and over collectively and always individually as well. In this sense, German theater is hugely a give and take relationship between actor and audience, and that is of the utmost importance for theater in my opinion. So, as I clapped for a good five minutes, I held back emotional tears not necessarily for the play, but for the respect the players and their patrons had for each other.

the arrival

From the corner of my eye, a smile.

Tasting bitterly human,

you touch me like a signal from the past.

Comfort food.

Your breath descends to stillness

bringing my heart closer to yours.

Oh what sweet kiss,

wake me with your eyes.

A bird song and the sounding church

encourage our ecstasy.

Lips dancing like long lost lovers,

exploring the surface as if for the first time,

I wonder- Has a love ever been so perfect?