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Showing posts from 2017

The Insult

Suddenly, one day You become a weed on a courtyard wall   The wild green that nourishes on the intrinsic bliss of his domesticity.   Their murmurs of yesteryears gather on your body, hanging down the dilapidated concrete, and write new epilogues for a play, that ended much before the first Act   Your hapless nerves become, the scorching summer intruding, their frozen corridors. The melancholy whore, You spread like evening rays over, the impending silence.   Your words Your skies Your cuddle Your newfound womb, shatter over a forbidden land, mutilated.   The snake bite on their moonlit nights, You ooze out, from a million pores.    

Grandma

Seventy five summers weighed down on her as she stepped out of the home he was laid to rest.   Not a drop could contain the sea, she left to dry Reminiscences now lost to termites and her progenies other worlds   She, the alien to be forsaken, earnestly. Her hunched values, broken limbs, sagging breasts and vague senses   The door, closed behind her.   Silence the gaze wind, and the road.

Vanish

Vanish like an unwritten poem Word by word Letter by letter Breath by breath. Like an island, embracing the current that spreads over her body the poison blue. Vanish, like the sky Carried away to the south by the birds Like people walking out of lives             unassuming. Vanish like God

Confession

I may not have done this if you had, held me close for a moment or so before walking away into the chores of indifference   Leaves holding on to the wind before the fall.   The morning dew, droplets of diamonds On my face, pale white.    

Vindication of an Irrational Psyche

On those days you walk out of a recent love You feel like a woman in labor. That moment of sudden calm, comes unexpected as you push your despair out and lie back, tired. as if in a post-coitus carelessness. The nights come back like a recurring full moon spreading silver, As you see time, spread out like a fisher man’s big catch of the day. You become Spring, infertile as you bury deep the desires from that nether land. Only to sprout alphabets, poems and silence in your eyes.    

When I am gone

When I am gone do not close down the day Open your window to the rains and senses, to twilight Do not sing me your loss Listen to the poems we read together and smuggled each other Words, unuttered.   Take long walks through boulevards of autumn leaves. Watch the boundless horizon and lives, un-loved   Remember me as flashes of lightening over the night sea as the breath that pause amid your work and home   Remember me as your favorite lines, in solitude, as the sharp blend of shades on a canvas or, the rhythm of an eternal dancer   Do not hold me a memorial or a farewell party. Let the bygone melt as ice-cubes into the sea in a beer beaker.                              

Burial Ground

The man who kissed me last kissed, as if I were a Coffee bean The million kisses he planted on my face as the moon hid behind grey clouds in a hurry have grown in to a yellow desert left to the sun Flashes Moments Long buried in a grave fresh and bleeding

The Peculiar Silence

The peculiar silence of the aged. The entirety of the mountain before the dawn.   Time, frozen and meditating Over hard earned memories Adrift and unabsorbing   Gazes, dry the dampness inward   The fragile steps, one against the other, watch the earth moving underneath and the wanton world rustling, beside   The inquisitiveness, the laughter and the slices of sky, move from an armchair to bed and to the rainless windows   The tragedy of being alive with a child within

Self Portraits

Frieda Kahlo butterflies on her hair. Brush strokes of green, yellow and brown fill the canvas, as if planet earth   Her eyes and the bridge of salvation, above binding one stream to another. Veins, roots, spread over her body and the ground beneath   Holy crow down her chest The black moors of the jungle Reminders of sin Leaves, wings and forest a free zone of primordial mirth.   She is her own Buddha, Enlightened. The desires of her body fertility throbs of red earth   Every woman is a Frieda in those early hours or quiet afternoons As they look at one’s own body Spreading like a weed, in obvious oblivion, With tentacle spine.   Thus formed jungles, Amazons and ecstasies.