language

Vamos

The signified has fallen off the page
and the signifier stands alone,
meek and purple.

Vanished,
the signifier

spins in an effort to create a circle–
a center of its own?
perhaps like a lost may fly
near the neon tubes,
oh what effort
to reach somewhere
and be seated.

Plato’s anxiety

 
Image result for platos academy
Plato’s academy by Raphael

I have been waking up
and trying to fine tune the breath
in the belly
before the instrument goes out to play
on office desks
and impostor-ed classrooms.
 
They tell you
they tell you wrong,
the spirit does not
reside in the shell of the language,
it has to be summoned
in the body
and its word.
 
I try and breathe
to summon myself.

Delivery

Image result for Tito Salomoni CATCH A STAR
Catching a Star by Tito Salomoni

There is a violin in my throat
and many a times,
I am a beginner.

I try to land my sentences
like a chef mastering his babied-bread
like a batsman who could score a bounce
like a man with his palms open in a prayer

It is a prayer–my sentences–
for meaning,
and the masses hope for a miracle
whenever the poem arrives.

Occasional Corridor

Image result for medieval surrealism monk

Varo Remedios – Les Feuilles Mortes 


There is an ineptitude
in excess of feelings
that devour all the words,
until they are encountered by a large door
painted with a medieval-mourning,
clothed in a monk-brown;
it is really not strange
for me to be deeply in love
and to be found at this gate,
it is a segue
doubly-enshrined
by disbelief in yet a higher altitude
by no higher altitude altogether,
as if Meaning,
eternally slipped away from the mouth of the language.

The Gift



Sleeping Beauty painting – Victor Gabriel Gilbert 




The words have already been used before
and what is more for me to say
but
to
go
into
my inventory
and solve a puzzle
of conjuring words that actually look like
the steadfast knot of peace
that has been gift-wrapped upon my monkey-heart.

The gift of happiness
that is always so uncanny,
but never with you.



Everything about everything

31/100
100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Image result for apple surrealism

By  René Magritte

Imagine a cotton-yarn sun
–all before the six days–
as it sat in absolution
like an apple in a still life painting

until the yarn spelled out
the threads became different
and people like words
had to be understood as different,
and in this uttered fission,
the woman without language
always remembered the fruit
which she could only bear
in more and more difference.

In the webs of the yarn
happened a day,
today
when the wires tangled so,
started moving backward into a fusion.

In this, the people who walked like words
fussed with a lack of voice,
with their right hands
they burnt all the new dictionaries
that had said
everything is everything.

Starry night

8/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Related image

I hated nostalgia,
for I was still a child
and what of child and the past,
and what of child and the future?

In my starry night,
I lapped in the moonlit sea
where wise turtles swam
and a bright meadow of stars spake,
of a vibrating universe
and secrets that evaded men,
but I like to think–they came close,
oh so close to me.

And when I came out of the sea
all drenched,
they thought it was the water-broke
and I was still a baby,
for I could not tell them what the stars said
and thus language, you’ve again
betrayed me.

I make words
they unmake me,
when I am told that I am only them.

It is a terrible thing to live without language
and to be told,
it is the way of life.

Like an open book

image

I write words and I look at them,
These spaces between the letters
Where I divide myself and put me in it
For you to read
For you to breathe
The love I have felt
underneath the chapsticks of language,
I corrode in its cacophonous transactions,
What pitiful it gives
For the tinge of a blood-coated lip
Or the nestling smog on my coat,
I haply kneel… I bang at its chest
Language, you have betrayed me.

In circular motions at my throat,
The glitch that I feel
Of my tongue that has sailed to Elysium,
I cannot explain
The love I feel.
Do you then, dear reader
Dare offer a rose
At my grave
of a crude chin?

If you can not drink from my cup,
Let me still believe
You have tupped me empty
From my full.