poetrylovers

Campfire

The light fell on us
and you noticed how     
I had dropped the eye/I
to see 
without a maze of mirrors

I used to write
"you and I"
[self-reference is for famous poets?]
with regard to 
a Pozzo and a Lucky,
but as the language decreed,
the twigs had snapped
into the baritone of the firewood. 

yet
I seem to think
there is a little bit of "we" 
about us
in the bite of the fire--
we are together in chaos,
if not order. 








Exile

 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
 Every day
  
 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 
 Mismatched
 Letting go of rubber bands
 Handbags, violins,
 Wondering to myself
 How odd it was to be alone
 With one’s own mind.
   

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.

Resurgent

Dali’s Camembert watches

I had waited in an atmosphere
to resolve the memory,
so trivial in my moving about–
my placing of the cup at the edge of the sink
where it belongs everyday
and so where does in all this
stands a specter tall
of memory

It comes to me like a Macbeth phantom
in a dream,
blood coated lips
melting like a Salvador clock
till an elevator buzzes open–
time’s up
wake up,
I’ll have to tell them
it is my cold acting up again.

Every night on a surgeon’s table
I am laid open
and my past is bled out of me,
some would say,
perhaps, to make space for some future,
but I know
And I disagree
Past is a fancy little word
to make us feel
things can truly ever die
and then, stay buried.








Midas and college books


45/100
100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018


Related image

© Mary Evans Picture Library/ARTHUR RACKHAM

Tyrant stains within the spaces of my fingers;
If you will take a ship from my wrist to these,
Astrologers will sing ‘no’ in a chorus
for my market value was next to none
and the production cost alone took a small library or a two.

Turmeric thumb—
snap like the summon of a magician,
I tainted my books
With a strand of myself into immortality;
Drenched—
it rains upon the hardcover of my Murakami,
I’m buried.