Self

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.

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The Void without ambition

10/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Related image

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/

The Gaze

16/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Image result for tree of eyes

Image, “The Trees Have Eyes” by Wim Lanclus

 

Close the doors
lay under the blankets,
and even under the eye lids,
O the,
O the,
eye follows.

It is not about people prying
It is about people prying about people prying.

One day I could not breathe
as I found a tree embryo
upon my navel,
an eye-tree
an I-tree;
It was nodes of thoughts that people could have on me.

Narcissus a rose
drowned in mirrors
of other minds
before it can ever love himself.

And so mirrors are bad-luck.

The Gaze remains,
it is un-human to be completely rid of it,
often more so un-lady-like
but sometimes when I sit alone
and listen to the birds,
I am just me
and no other words
for a tree of eyes to scrutinize.

Perhaps in such sweet music of nature,
we can return
like an elegy from a churchyard grey
and so we revive–
you may call it the “true self” if you will.

 

A pinch of stars

The words called me

I rinsed them with the left-over repression

And wondered if the sneeze she let out

Was a symphony of sympathy

For me?

 

I said god bless you

For he had ruined me

When I thought my heart, my love

Was made tender through a suspicion of affection.

 

‘Suspicion of affection’ are ghosts

That make you believe in unnatural things like:

Mother who loves her child

Father who sings lullabies

And a dire Jupiter pregnant with life.

 

Things turn upon themselves

And worlds are all upside down.

I fetishise one smile then,

When its tongue is smothered by suspicion of affection,

I let him caress me, indifferently,

If only to let the warmth out.

 

Picture credits: Laura Makabresku : “self-portrait with my dear Husband (Kraków, 2015)”

Gardening 


How do I find time?

I left it under the potted plant

Where my neighbor bends upon to smell a flower

And asks me about the full moon. 

He says 

There is glory in the gardens of the others

But here, the slugs ate away all the bloom

And made it seven words shorter

From a love poem

You were willing to write. 

I fight the winds

And grasp his hand

I tell him, I am a gardener of words

–Often other than the unkempt personal pronouns–

I collate 

A bag of off-shoots

Till they look like they have eaten time 

Over which my neighbor once bent upon, sorry,

Right before I unmade him

And went to sleep. 

Image source: hiveminer

Groundwork 


There is benign strength 

In my poet’s legs

To keep my words

From falling off in a dishonest dance routine

Noted among people

Who even served worms 

in gourmet,

With candlelight.                               

                              

      
I pity 

the words stuck like phlegm 

in their throats

Dying in the purpose of throne-making 

for a self in state of decline,

Reciprocal to

Each bite in the name of ‘taste’.         

              
                
Then in death

There is always a radioactivity. 

The charged words bump against the glass

Like a moth or a housefly

Like a lover or a businessman 

And at last

The mind breaks with its own ambition. 

The Imposter Syndrome

The Equation of Desire. Martin Soto Climent. Mousse Publishing.

He would always sit ahead of us

In his citric orange T-shirt

Sultry

Against the abandoned air-conditioned classrooms

Made by the Japanese and

Maintained by the miniature birds,

Who often get trapped in lecture-hall limbos.

 

I cannot write him

He’s a plant that does not germinate

Into wishful thinking

Of infatuated hearts, struck by poverty

Of lack.

A lack that begins to define you,

Your illegitimate parent.

 

But here’s a trick, 

Chance a find

you have to look.

Glance upon his quivery brow

Or

the rickety case of criss-crossed legs

That dares to announce

—If just for a second—

The same lack as you

And your

Out-of-the-league desires. 

Set of words 

Let me read you
 the opposite of poetry.

I pull out a letter knife 
And toy with red-lettered words
Till I no longer have a thirst for the apple juice
Or the Antarctic sky.

Whatever comes up
The blood or blues
I gulp it down with white wine
Until my feet are cold, enough for sleep,
I dream 

And then I weep in poetry.