Letters To Carrie
by V. Ulea

In memory of Carrie Drake, the editor of Mind Matters Review, a dear friend of mine, a woman whose 
golden heart and brilliant mind served as a guiding light for those who once had the honor of knowing her.

1
Life twisted all notions.
Midnight starts at noon.
Your ward is the ocean.
Your bed’s a canoe.
The waves raise their voice and
Invite you to fight.
You’re turning towards them.
And there is the light.
You go through the roaring.
The madness of waves
Appears in its glory,
Thins down your face.
They strike you at random,
Suppressing your fight.
You let them, you let them…
And there is the light.
 
2
How close are you? Far enough 
To knock on your door,
Or begin what in Russian
We call razgovor,
Or to have a cup of tea, 
Or to leave my keys,
Having no idea
Where (perhaps, underneath
All those piles of papers
On your busy desk.)
How far are you? Letters
Used to reach you fast… 
What’s with all these pages? 
Why they crawl up a hill?
This antique world ages.
But you never will. 
How far are you? Nigh enough
To not cover miles,
To not search to find your love -
Just to close my eyes.
 
3
I'm writing to you. 
                        A letter after letter...
And send them out ­ 
                        where no one lives,
And watch through the window the change in the weather.
It’s autumn already, the fall of the leaves…
I’m writing to you. I’m writing, I’m writing…
My letters are whirling and soar up the skies,
And higher, and higher ­ where someone almighty
Checks out his mailbox and reads them and cries. 
I’m writing to you. In defiance of weather,
Of reason, of sanity… Making up myths,
I’m writing to you. After letter ­ a letter,
Another one, next one… I’m out of leaves.


November 15, 2003
 
4
So, you’ve departed… Covered with the sail,
You embarked on your journey along the still waters.
Everything we thought, we dreamed, we said
Followed you as an echo of our dying-out voices.
It’s too spacious there, too serene, too silent,
And the smell of ether is mixed with iodine.
Does the ocean smell so on that side of the planet?
We will never know that: it’s for those who die.
We should not disturb you on your way to something
Which we can’t imagine, which you can’t describe…
All we can ­ just watch you sailing through the sunset
And accept your changes on the other side.
 
5
Another evening, another finished up day. 
The clock-face ponders 
on the expansion of π.
How much time has already passed away?
How many grammatical tenses 
                      have passed by?
The room is empty with things and full with thoughts.
The habit to write 
            aches in my right hand.
Do you think it’s easy? Each letter inside me has fought
For the freedom of speech, for the freedom “to be” ­ to the end.
And I cannot deny them, I cannot pretend that you’re gone
If I still talk to you through these letters ­ against common sense,
For the verbal world has been superior to the physical one
And it changes the past to the present and future tense.
And it changes the grammar of nature, of death and life, 
Makes the physical world its pupil who needs to learn.
So I start with the word, separating darkness from light
And the day of your death from the day 
                                   when you are to be born.