Bogumil Pacak-Gamalski
Every boy and every girl need to have a poet, who reminds them of the power of love. Something they absolutely must be certain of, something that hangs like a heavy, sweet fruit from the low branches that you are forced to reach, pick in your hands and sunk your teeth into it. Absorb the sweet aroma, let juices flow from your lips to your soul.
Let me be the poet, who will take you to the garden and show you the delicate foliage of the ancient orange shrubs and their sweet berries. The loganberries.
A sweet logan berry
hangs from your lips
like a promise of heaven.
What is heaven, you ask?
Heaven is like a kiss,
silent yet powerful.
Heaven is red like
quivering lips of logan berry.
Heaven is when you are
becoming someone’s berry.
A red, live, pulsating Loganberry.
How would I know, how would I dare to foretell stories like that? Because I am a poet and if poets know anything – they do know love, her ways and her magic. Poets know long walks by the small banks of streams, where the berries are plentiful in late summer evenings, and they see there pairs of young lovers picking the berries and placing them in the mouth of their beloved ones. Poets, being poets, go home and write a poem about it. After all, that is all they know how to do. Hoping to explain the ways of love to some young boy or girl. They are like the loganberry – all they know is how to grow and become sweet and inviting, hoping that some girl or boy will pick them and taste them. The rest is mystery like the morning mist climbing the shores of small stream.
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