Witty Fay
is a translator by trade and a humanist by nature. She has been writing herself
into her poems for some time into the virtual world at www.iexile.com, www.allpoetry.com, www.scriggler.com, www.destinypoets.co.uk, www.writerscafe.org www.poetrysoup.com and www.versewrights.com . Also, she proudly had her
first bilingual volume of poetry, Nefelibata
(Brian Brixon Books, 2014), published and she is aiming at unraveling
prose.
Warm eyes
The night we
built a sea into ourselves
You gave me a
story to grow on.
Of how life was
lifting its veils
Like ripe fruit
into the warm palms of dust.
You never
claimed it as your own
For the place of
a tale teller
Is under the
naked sun.
Still, time
found its way
Of branching
your life into mine
And keep us
mirror gazing under the moon cake
Like a field of
nesting birds
That lays down
its burden to stretch and arch.
For all the
gifts we bear and bestow,
Every word that
falls of our mouths is a coin lost
And other
origamied houses and clothes
Adorn our waking
arms.
I have no spell
over your years
And no name you
hold dear.
And as I trade
my heart for inky wash,
My feet will
never stir the design
Of a single pine
needle
And I shall wear
your green, yellow and brown
Forever.
Of new life
What lies at the end of my fingertips?
You’d think it is the contour of my
subordinate existence,
The one that repugns my inkiness and
flight,
Those invisible threads that put down my
roots in the soil
And that mundane attire you have come to
embrace
Yet, despise dearly when you wrap me into
it.
There is an unopened life where my circle
of safety ends
And you’d rather watch it grow from a safe
distance
For your hands clayed me into a pedestal of
light
That is far from the soot that clothes my skin
And paints this wicked heart into
brokenness.~Witty Fay
