Poems

Cold water

15/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Image result for water photography surreal

There is some respite in early morning
like the deep of the night,
silence is at its tooth–
the sober cold marble.

In the eve,
the motor with its vehicles
violates the road,
with a devilish groan like an eternal fever
at a path that was shod in the stark of the noon.

Being lulled back to sleep,
now
and as in sleep
all the banter recedes like waves
and the mind is saved from sickness.

Abandon not, yourself
give not, your sleep
or there will be no water for your heart to hold itself to its feet.

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Monsoon wings

14/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

San rock painting of ‘shamans of the rain’ ( !khwa:-ka xorro) capturing an imaginary ‘rain- animal.’ When it was killed, the creature’s blood and milk were believed to fall as rain. The fish and eels indicate that the ‘trance-event’ is taking place in an underwater spirit realm. Lesotho. After Stow 1930: pl. 67a. Copy made in the 1870s. 

San rock painting of ‘shamans of the rain’ ( !khwa:-ka xorro)

I went to buy some eggs
and I saw a winged ant sparkling upon the white lap
of a woman who sits.

I told her
popping fear-delight,
of the company she had,
and all she did
was cluck her tongue,
and say that they die, after the rains.

Of lately, my sweet dreams
in restless jaws
but with calm odors of the ground
my flesh-reap
I am riding an Aladdin lamp,
to moth to flames
and oh so clearly, I see the clouds
upon my tongue
a purple night–
We’re born again
if only to die.

Night Walk

13/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

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Today, I am feeling sharp,
the light slants off my knees
at knifed angles
and my hair twists in wet malice,
“I feel sharp”, I repeat,
almost in pleasure.

The cobblestone seduces the moon
and I walk a whimsical night,
and I do not know why
my desire must only manifest
with a black cat
or a circumferenced moonlight.

But if to bewitch,
my own gait is a forbidden road
let me walk in secrecy
with strange eyes
like gallows–
of climax,
a sip
a fall
a see-saw, ever so delicious.

The tiger and the lamb

12/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Image result for plates by william blake

Plate 1 of The marriage of heaven and hell by William Blake

 

I drink flowers at night
hoping my heart
ticking like a time-tot,
may stay afloat.

Can you imagine seeing yourself without a mirror?

It is a delicious process,
but thoroughly uncivilized,
a body without water
and stars bitten off their twinkle–
tigers loom on its branches
and are orange in their eyes,
with a fire hot, in the cold moon,
unapologetic.

But sometimes
a lamb appears,
it is not soft and innocent
(it never is)
it is bleating, bothered
and afraid of being hunted
armed with a pocket watch,
maybe even looking for Alice.

Very often, when you would
try and find
your “real self”
men will tell/see you
either of these,
in their own romantic ideas.

But you are none,
and you are “none”;
Sometimes a whore, sometimes a nun.

Dollhouse

11/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Photographed by Tim Walker

Spark
on spinning wheels
and the factory of smiles,
half-a-doll of infatuation
half-a-doll of love,
oh perhaps, of Bovarian dreams.

I would have absolutely despised writing on
“smile”,
but ordinary things contain cosmic affairs,
and now my heart,
is merely a misspelled smile.

A gentleman sitting on the stairs
kind eyes,
the wind rattling behind the palace gate
that surrounds his soldier-shoulders,
kind eyes.

I say,
do fall upon “looks”,
for you can read
eyes, brows, and tips of woolen hair falling over the forehead,
and not
the words that often betray the book.

The Void without ambition

10/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

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Tough by ChrisCold

                                         Dedicated to a dear friend. She probably won’t guess it.

Ghost dust
and air like circling hair,
but not warm and covering
rather open
like a dark mouth
with a sincere eye at its end.

You can actually hear the room you know
as if all the bustle of life,
silenced
or questioning
and all you want
is to close your ears like a child
and run
until you see the light
that blinds that ever so watchful eye.

One day I met a girl,
I thought she was like many other with cold veins,
pale forehead
but with a hidden fire to reign upon life,
that life
which itself is a fire,
pyre–
but I couldn’t have been more wrong.

On a warm afternoon,
behind her shoulders
I saw the eye,
and she unblinking–
“I see”, she said,
“you have met our eternal state
of emptiness,
but peace”.

The sooner the better.

Image by: “ChrisCold”, Artist profile: https://chriscold.deviantart.com/

Sail

9/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Paintings Aivazovsky,  Ivan Constantinovich

Storm in the north sea, Aivazovsky (1865) 

I have never lived this life before
and the land is ever alien,
and the light keeps changing
with questions of mortality,
if not purpose.

The looking glass is my circus
and meaning is my cup,
“oh what could she possibly mean by that?”,
I mean my mode
of writing solemnly
as the sun drips my window with glass-sweat,
my house a greenhouse
and my body within, like my soul within my flesh.

For once,
I wish I wasn’t so mysterious,
really,
I am not trying,
Do understand
the meaning that lay trapped
like a doomed boat diving under the crest.

Starry night

8/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

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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.