“Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold” – W. B. Yeats
You omit before you write yourself lest you become the colossal weight of what lies under the ocean, that be, the weathered face of the mad king, the woman who had jumped off the roof, a past lover of your lover, a past-lover.
The ocean is no man’s alone and yet it floods us all with it’s seismic wreck, spinning: it batters old and new structures alike, it eats men alive and leave them language.
If poetry is settling, what is a stirring spoon in the muddied water?
There is no metaphor that sits at the bottom of the glass that may leap up with a momentum of a frog and catch you mid-throat before you swallow your indigestion once again, and mold into yet another insoluble
Till the new war opens its mouth and the mercenary irrigates the bomb, the glass will became fertile again with the notion of end as with blood.
There was a curve in the road
Where I left you
And then I suddenly became aware
Of the public space floor;
It was a desolate throat without water,
It was blackened
At the same spot
By a man who differed with his left foot
Or the woman whose trolley car had canines,
I waited and absorbed the floor
Like a sad old mop.
And the limbo before the sunset
Did not itch the back of a woman
Sprawled in the irony
Of white sheets
On the floor
Without a mattress
Without a cushion,
Waiting to exile the land the next day,
Sleeping on an airport.
At that time,
I felt as if I had forgotten to pick up my keys
I walked as if weeded out
Letting go of rubber bands
Wondering to myself
How odd it was to be alone
With one’s own mind.
There is the circling of eagles in the deep blue sky and the sound of the flute, as if emanating from the tendrils of the new monsoon borne porcupine-ed leaves and there is then, the drilling noise that must overpower the hum of the traffic or the worker woman’s bangles, clinking with the fidget of the soul moving inside her palms
In all these spaces I tell you to find yourself the emptiness that is pleasant in the patience of a house plant that stares out the window everyday and feels the rain in dripping shadows– I offer you cold loneliness
for the times I cannot offer you the warmth when my fingers touch the sides of your hand, the spaces between your fingers the moving of your neck– the bed of your amorous speaking, from where you will inform me of my once-again distant absence
Then, I give you my absence for you to hold and believe my presence in your palms once again.