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.
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.
in the veins of the leaves,
their was a star-bell,
that when the night arrived,
sang in secret
and mimicked the star-sea.
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–
and the masses hope for a miracle
whenever the poem arrives.
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
by disbelief in yet a higher altitude
by no higher altitude altogether,
as if Meaning,
eternally slipped away from the mouth of the language.
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
It comes to me like a Macbeth phantom
in a dream,
blood coated lips
melting like a Salvador clock
till an elevator buzzes open–
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.
100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018
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.
snap like the summon of a magician,
I tainted my books
With a strand of myself into immortality;
it rains upon the hardcover of my Murakami,