Failings

Failure, he says
is an attribute of the strong --
like builders who fail to fit into
the maths and the grading
like women who rush for marriage
or children while still on a life half lived
like burying ones head into sand
for safety against the clamor
Failure is good for the muscles
it tones the fats down
Failure is good because
 it flattens the hearts
I tell you of my failings
So you can know of your callings

Poetry written once in illness

I’m hallucinating in poetic verse

I’m cracking my way between images,

Lost between ivy and wonderlands

Metaphors are running in front of my eyes, senseless chicken

The blisters on my tongue made love to fever,

Then, you  launched your presences– one by one, ghosts or visions

 Once more, my muse

Stop these lucid hallucinations of color and of poetry

Dig deeper into their origin:

It is there buried under what feels like bricks

Graceful, a bit tired but thankful

Scared, anxious and bustling

No definitely  scared

Scared of withering away  alone here in this cold foreignness

Like Al Sayyab, he was a poet, wasn’t he?

Petrified at the thought:

Of leaving without showing enough how grateful and loving it can be

That little heart in me. 

Namings, callings

We bare our names the way we bare our faces
They become a feature
summarizing our beings in a few syllables
Some are named by their mother's desires
those that grew in umbilical cords
but were bigger than birthmarks like
like Claire to clarity,
and Esperanza to hope
Our names carry us on solid wagons, in time
and in nature; aurora and peach
Lilly, morning song and Gaias,
Ash to earth, earth to earth.
A few of us carry lordship and sainthood,
only in names and old prayer books
breaking off in miniature studded rosaries
like John/s, Michael/s and Christina/s
do they live up to angelic chants?
sometimes Jane/s, Alice/s, Emma/s and Fitzwilliam/s
fit better in novels and auto generators of fiction
known to millions, the names hide from their owners
in an unending childhood games of guesses.
In times when mothers are wrecked
from sweat beads, pain and long cries
the syllables come in halves:
Ra, Jo and Cal
Abe, Gil and Flo
Flow of thoughtless moments
but names are unique callings
for they are sharper than a few letters
they sink in meaning beyond limit
Take mine, a calling special
short and easy to say
Me:
I was named for a pious grandmother
Graceful, wise and simple
She prays
while I sit poised between empty bottles of Gin
and long nights of sin.

Times New Roman

Twelve, times new roman

is not just a font,

words created the seas

 between two inescapably narrow shores

too shallow and too sore to become one land again

and within them sprouted algae and fragile sea turtles

The words hugged one another, 

in time these will vanish

but now they were new;

freshly cut they puked the story 

like little, lame pebbles

lined up against an old Roman olive tree

Was it worth the tsunami, then?

Is it worth the rumble between 

the two sides of the same coin

flipping madly in the head

flipping for

a single line, double stressed thought. 

Flower arrangements

'Bless my homeland forever.' Edelweiss, Sound of Music.

                       I.

From the crag, edging near the cliff
the Edelweiss flutters in the snowy wind
Tiny and white, bathed in yellow it looks over the houses
some houses are built from wood
some still standing in sticks and stones
the crisp of the fire burns bellow her
still
The Edelweiss smiles at those who greet her,
still standing.

                        II.

Between the red chipping soil darts the poppy
It is bursting in color like spring
touching the ground and greeting the swallows
The poppy looks at the swaying bodies as they
fall, one after the other into the her arms
welcome, my children, the poppy says to
Those who listen with mud clamped ears.

                        III.

The 'blossom of snow' looks over
the children across the mountains
The poppy receives her own bodies from the groves
Both flowers, pregnant with seasons glance
and stand guarding,
 blessing and overlooking homelands, forever.

Pictures courtesy of Google search. 

Bus stop

In the bus station Two guys argue With gangster volume and shabby clothes Thier voices echo bouncing off empty blue seats Around seven o'clock In the gloomy bus station
before their sound disappears
and the cigarette buds remain

Priority seat

Seat the adults The handicap Those whose bones eroded 
and those whose bones are being made Those women Seat the wombs
The long standing feat
they deserve the Propority seat 
Seat them then; Our fears 
of clothing new souls and burying old ones
Our fears of fading 
like ash into the wind 
Seat it, let it hush Our fear of halving, of breakage 
seat it down, the fear 
of breaking chapping bones and dignities
Seat our fear of being or becoming a new Seat the fear of rebirth Birthing little souls that sprout like fungi to raid or raise Priority seat the missing The wrinkles The pained All the normals can handle the bites of boots The smell of armpits Shaking earthquakes 
on long rides Just seat the fear Our comfort can remain standing.

Write loss

You cannot touch loss by hand

Like you touch a new baby or a silk piece of cloth 

Because loss runs from you

or you from it, like a never ending series of tomorrows.

You cannot see loss, 

The way you see sunshine bursting in rainbows

every morning

because your eye will twitch 

Thrice before it lets your lids onto the scenes before you.

You cannot hear loss, 

Like Beethoven to his senses

because it is mute and deaf to the sighs

of misery and the revocations of hushed whispering

that replaces the sighs. 

Loss cannot creep up to your nose

and pinch you, like a stench of a burnt out camp

or a bloody limb dripping

blood, wasting bodily iron that festers instead of water

at the roots of a blossoming jasmine.

You cannot taste the bitter orange meringue 

ruffed in white cream that loss bakes

every morning as it embraces

the tiny footsteps of who and what should have been 

standing in the mirror next to you

in place of loss. 

You do touch loss, around your ears or in the spaces of your fingers

where the ring once sat, crowned in jewels and smothered in kisses

You can see loss, wherever you turn if you look carefully

and you can hear it, beating then beeping around hospital monitors

and loss stinks and reeks, out of you on a bed after labor

after falls, and accidents and misspellings on test papers--

Loss creeps into your cracks like rivers of yellow custard 

flowing at the end of a hungry stomach.

Loss shapes you as you mold it along-

Believe me, I've tried to befriend it

but it slid beneath me, fooled my pens

even when I changed the ink's colors

For you

You cannot scribble loss

unless it hits you first in the gut

and then in the brain, 

like a speedy final destination train. 

Candles

'There's heat in freezing, be a testament' Tanya Davis

Candles
White, beautiful and causally teary,
the head, it is a flame against the minutes
the heart is a flame against darkness
the flame, hot and steady
burns to light other people's way
but people tend to forget
A candle burns, after all.

Picture not mine, found on Google.

Steps above the River

Bridge
Over my water. There's a wobbly bridge
Over the water, underneath me
There's a wobbly note
That plays
From the cracks underneath me
A gull flies
and a ferry blows its boats, hard and sharp
All beneath me
I am as cross
As the smoggy waters. The waters, the face of the city
are rushed, angry and washed over
And on the wobbly bridge I count my steps:
One
For the mad woman of poetry
Two
For the homeless man in the red cape, hugging a dog for warmth
Three
For the acrylic brush that painted my desires: rain, warmth and an orange horizon
Four
For undiscovered nooks: stations, corners, bread and ice-cream
Five
For pieces of a grand puzzle:: me, you, we, they, us
Six
For the carbon copy faces: crisp, tired and full of tide
Seven
For the other side of everything.

The London Look

How do you describe the untangled, unattainable  

beauty

a mixture of color,

Add eyes

subtract noses 

and multiply cheeks

That's the image, that's the make up

Of her reflection  

Rimmel she wears, like shades of 

London cast lipstick glows blood red 

while she glances at the window

And London with its Rimmel rushes

and they are both water and tear proof.

Fire brigade

Two a.m.
The alarm bells are deafening,
Like big continuous cars tamping
upon each other.
The night is not young,
the sticks hold us up
like matchboxes in a row
we are not young
but among the ramp of bodies
a hair lone, black like the night
flails, and pulls the layer of silk
under the cover of the stars
'It was just a burnt out toast bread', the white face explains
The fire brigade handles no jam
and while the world burns
We recline on our sticks
we watch as they all run to save
the building from the dark.

Past midnight convo

Me, what do I do at this hour?

Nothing, I am making a different world.

Aren't you done yet?

No. The world still needs active people

But it is late- past the hours of the night sky to turn 

Aqua and charcoal. 

The world still needs people, I say

Like feathers moving up and down

Living,  dying, becoming

What coming?

I said becoming, as in wearing a shade.

Is my pronunciation thick?

Not at all!. You are European, no?

No. I come from the south,

south of the freezing sea.
How about you? Big fella with muscular arms
and pressed white shirt.

Want to call me, pretty boy?
Me, no I'm a bit shy.

Those blue eyes I've seen these, somewhere-

Sorry I didn't catch your name,

Maybe you are a ghost in my head-

A reflection of blue eyes I know 

No. he answers, you didn't get it
My name

because I am a man of mysteries

Like Zorro but I am not Mexican
I don't have a thick accent I am-

Denis, I am from Romania. 

I am made from 40 degrees bellow the ice

Nice to meet you,little Lotte, in the apple shine dress

and the daisies of wonderlands.  He says, Denis the Romanian 

The godly pair

I.

It rises like no tomorrow
Like no shadow draped its mantel
over the lake towards
where the waters rumble
The stench of little, unexplored
bodies of air and water
and little dots of incomprehensible white
Like snowflakes,
like daises exposed from green earth.
He brags the tails of his crimson mantel
three times near brink of the water
No allowed to glance
The glossy surface dances with the wind
Three times his shadow passes
and from a nearby tree the thrust of grass
grumbles and its Echo he hears
All along, repeating
Willow and wallow,
Kissing the thrush's song and the swallow
It's  Echos he hears,again all along
It's Echo he hears but light he follows
'Come towards the shallow water'
He stoops near the river and
God- that is a beautiful lad
broad shouldered, browned eyes
and let's not talk about the cheek bones
or the light brow
A painting divine, too real
For the mind to just glance at
Let's not wash it away from water
But the wind blows again; rippling wrinkles upon that cheek
that image is mine, he stoops lower
and his eyes roll stones under the waves
He is the eternal wrinkle at the lake's stomach.


II.

She smells the sulfur of the sea
its livers' bile
As she navigates her way
In the cactus paved deserts
That grew on her heart
Where are you? she cries.
Where have you gone?
Gone..
Gone..
Gone..
Go..
G o o o o n e..
The wind breaks her pleas.
Answer me,  the sun blisters her feet
She trails and the devils dance along
'Come gently, like wind to water'
She moves to where no sand can claim her heart
She move where no sand can tint her hands
Near the brinks, between the grass
By the grey and green waters
She glances
'Where are you?'
Three faeries and three fireflies
Flutter their wings around her white lined dress
'Ah' runs her gasp, out, steady and swift
She almost missed it;
His cheek, his shoulder bones were
 yellow and white crowned flowers
laying near her sun kissed  toes.

Rotten Fruit

When one picks apples

They proceed gently

holding the young saplings:

Buds and blooms

they explode into 

the multitude of red sparkle.

You, beat three times around the bush

Never beat the bush

Be careful with apples,

They are tender.

What about the other fruit?

Shoot it    he said

cut to its core, 

Turn and watch it fall to the ground

Bleeding sap on cements or festering rot

This is what happens to everything

that's not red or round

it is opened

Split in two

and left in the sun till it becomes red

or dyes black

 Like it never  existed.

 

What they say

Few lines from a poem under construction:

Your name
Watch where you carve it
Keep an eye to where your foot steps
That's what mothers usually say
Before they wrap their warmth
and tuck it neatly
Next to the apples and the oranges
in morning prepared lunchboxes.

A case of missing

Whenever you miss something,
a smell, a rose, a sound of laughter
a face, a being, your own self
just walk, walk away from your longing --
toward newer places: patches of green,
dogs behind the tress with tinted collars
to where jazz music plays
operated by an old, ragged street performer.
And I
I have walked, all the paths
You will be amazed at the greenery I've seen,
And at the dogs I've managed to piss off
but the screeches of the jazz octaves  I've hit
Still play
Till the dawn of meetings.

Marginal notes of a madwoman

In describing what goes around her the madwoman turned to dust
Over the ridges her bellowing rose:

The world I rely on is tipping over

it is

Tipping over

Tipping

Tip

Pip

Plob

Plib

Tip

Trip

Tip

.

.

.

.

Over 

sliding into deep, dark inked water. 

License

A license to harm,

A license to hunt, not haunt

requires: a cavity in the brain

and an old, plastic knife. 

Tags

They dreamed of one day 

when adjectives

stop hanging from each person's back

 like an unwanted declaration 

They dreamed of a day 

when nouns 

stop appearing on each person's face 

Like pimples

They dreamed of a day 

when words stop making scars 

like a case of testimonial on days to come

They believed in the world of the dream

too much to ever wake up. 

 

The Morning After

In Mid conversation we lived

Haunted, flared

Stacked in a moment of time.

You walked out, like a release

From a long, repetitive survey

Maria,Maria

She played the song

Maria,Maria left her fruits on the table

and I

I unplugged the speakers

I ran away with the cable

The apples have gone rotten

The music had faded like rewashed linen

Now I turn in speech alone

You. Where have you gone?

Speechless.......

For R....

 I cannot sit down

Because I'd explode

 I'd run  wild flowers

I cannot sit down

The rain is all over me

For it rained all evening.

Even my words shake as they leave me

Slowly

Towards silence

I never knew your favorite flower

Or the way you liked your pizza

but I never knew or had the strength

to text your other half:

Sorry for your loss

because halfway there's a sorrow for mine.

Starry conversation

     I.

The sun told the moon

'I miss you'

He answered

'come visit me when it's nighttime.

Meet me in the dark'

   II. 

The cat swallowed 

Half the moon the boy threw out of the window

and gave the beams to her staving kittens.

  III.

The half moon played half a song

the half moon talked to half the stars

The other halves 

Beamed jazz in the kitties tummies. 

   IV. 

The full moon rounded,

Like peacocks it cried 

'night's here'

  V.

The sun snorted at nighttime, 

it hated the sound of rustling wind 

Meowing cats and angry teenage boys.

The sun despised the cracks of whips 

and the breaking of vases and jars. 

   VI. 

Then when the moon said I want you 

the sun answered: 

You are plain rock 

noisy and hard

And I am bright fire

my surname is the morning star. 

illustration credit: found on a yoga website via google, not mine. 

Little arguments

What are you saying?
What are you doing?
Why is your sky green and mine blue?
Your seas are purple and your land is drawn in musical notes
Your speech is whimsical and you dream in metaphor
Sometimes, we do not get you
Your gibberish
the world you create for yourself,
'Why? Show me one reason why.' He asked again
Art explains itself, she whispered as
She pulled him by the hand
away from the paint dripping canvas
left to dry
under May's sun.

On loss

Center of the world,                                 

tell me

when does the next train leave

off the edges of the universe?. 

(part of a poem inspired by Frida Khalo's painting bellow) 

Future Fear

No one enjoys

The ride along this but I,

Fear this dream

Flowers! waste again.

Rooster's egg.

Ours they had said Of the roosters egg No, it is ours- their neighbors cried And they both forgot It was never a rooster that laid the egg!

Cycling and poetry

The cyclist he
never sees
eye to eye those who tread
the land at their pace.

Bee yourself

One

is not the exposition of hair breaking 

or scars and mistaking 

Not the effects of leftover alcohol in your soul 

or even your turned out closet.

One is 

What makes of those moments, 

all put together

of breaking hairs and of mornings beyond alcohol 

Spirits are never made to be worn out

One becomes what one puts up 

or lets go off, like decorations

one is collected in attics through the years

and one is vibrantly polished like glass surfaces-

One never stops growing, 

old, but somehow taller, or heavier 

Truthful but somehow leaner 

One's self stretches its wings enough

to fit the world 

yet awes at where other selves start.