Friday, July 15, 2011
Walking down the streets with myself as my own lover;
They were empty and I was full
Of water, of water, of water.
People call this Madam-Monsieur weather
I call it stupid rain
For it doesn't know on whom to fall
Or on those who take out their umbrellas
Wishing the trees be thirsty again.
that I would rather
be a sun
than a star
but what one might not consider
is only one
It's always better to live in a
community that has borrowed its light
from an eternal external source,
than to be the ONE
Although for ages
have told the reverse.
Who bears such
who go aloof
not noticing me?
that shake you to your very core,
that replays the past scenes of your life
on the big TV screen;
It was one of those lines
where your eyes get blind and
you can't see anymore;
It was one of those phrases
that memory has crammed inside itself for so long
it is time
to blurt it out.
all the years ahead
wishing to return to this year,
this one year
this one best year
this one, passed, best year
this only perfect year in my life
with all its imperfection
wishing to return to this year;
dreaming of it at nights and
writing books about it in the
early hours of the afternoon
alone with myself and a cup of tea
(i will never get drunk on coffee
tea will always remain my drink
as a habit you shaped in me
as a symbol of all the habits that you shaped in me)
this year will remain with me
as it was
golden, blue, green,
with little flakes of snow
here and there;
like that cup of tea
that red, brownish, cup of leaves
soaking in water as if drowning
drowning and dead
wishing to rise again,
this year will always remain with me
None of it will move in my head
none of it will differ
none of it will become better
or will get eternal
this year as it was
with leaves of red here and there
and little shades of white on the ground
as it was
as it will always be,
with all its mortality.
That he loves us all the same,
invests the same amount of time and fortune on all of us,
It would be so unfair;
Some of us are not as promising
and as good as the others,
some of us are just a body and a face,
some of us- we have raindrops in our hair,
the sun beams on our forehead,
birds encircle us like a galaxy,
we breathe out gold and sapphire.
I never believed that we are all the same to God,
a fine little sane girl that
never smoked or
slept with strangers
did all the things that people said she should;
they claimed it a way to be safe;
avoiding all of which later,
There was a tiny little smile
she always wore on her face
and everybody was happy with her
but one day
one rainy day as she remembers
she decided to start her journey out.
On her way
not there yet.
it wrecks the fields, the farms, the poor,
nature blows into its whistle,
a climatic phenomenon,
no human hands backstage.
In a land of much more moderate weather,
winds are less natural than they are artificial,
Only human hands against human hands can rise.
Not religion that comes from above.
Only weak, imperfect human hands.
This time, leave us alone.
first loves are bound to disappear.
You are not my first love,
I have loved a million times before you,
long enough to know that
none of those compared to this.
When they left, I said,
"Along comes another one",
when you left, I looked at myself from above,
saw my own body dismissed from the earth.
You are not my first love,
first loves do not outlive our own selves.
over and over
and over again;
with a bit of change in the colour
of the flowers they pick for Valentine,
and a bit of change in the pattern
of the shirt underneath their suit;
they change their manifesto but
turn out to have the same goals:
You! Hey! In the corner,
you should come out, join the crowd
and enjoy your lonely alcohol late at night in the bar,
and, damn it, where are your friends, fellow?
Join our club, we have an 'ist' at the end of our name,
we're the hot topic they all talk about;
you, you who are sitting there alone sipping coffee,
does anyone ever talk about 'you' too?
They have their twists in fate and some
even happen to really mean what they say,
and have a story to stick to but lack something:
where is 'my' story?
Which is unique, is pale,
was unwanted at first and then
grew like a weed
through their walls,
to their warm beds,
haunted them in the shower,
dropped them dead the minute they finally heard it.
I love you
thanks to the centuries
that built up to this day;
thanks to the tyrants and autocrats
that did not kill your grandfathers;
thanks to those who did not follow into the dream of you and wreck it,
thanks to their boundaries,
thanks to those that built their houses apart from you and
allowed you to breathe this sunshine every morning
before I could
open my window,
and breathe the same sunshine
in another part of the world.
for the first time and I was not shot.
Moving westward to the stranger lands,
and always eastword back home again.
Where did I leave my jacket though,
did I not know it's cold in the west?
I have crossed walls since the lighter years
to trap the sun and not let go of the day.
I have crossed walls and tried to catch what
is on top, always in the distance, not coming down.
I crossed the Berlin wall again
and I survived one more time.
Two more times, three, four, infinite times and then
Bang! I was dead.
But my death had nothing to do with the Berlin wall,
and yet, think of it as you mourn me with regret.
in the river Ouse*
or in a kitchen oven in Fitzroy Road in London**;
a talented writer,
who is her husband? her lover?
A companion just like herself,
a man who writes poetry as well,
and understands the importance of rhyming sometimes,
and not, the others;
a man with a publishing house,
who devotes all his energy to the papers.
But what is it there,
in the oven,
that burns and glimmers?
What does she see in the river?
Another lover, perhaps,
a lover that understands the simpleness of life,
who tells her at nights that she is the one,
no matter how many poems she has written,
or is going to write.
A man so unlike Leonard,
that can grab her and show her the way out
of the abyss
she keeps falling
Not just another being with her own self,
but a completely different man,
whose fire burns elsewhere,
whose eyes catch her worldliness;
Someone to show you around,
and teach you how to really live,
despite your poetry or whatever shitty art it is you do.
Dreamer with dreamer
drowns in the river,
or else explodes in the kitchen.
Rambling through the dust,
I hear you walk by.
Streets changed their names,
Houses got demolished and were built again;
Houses on top of houses,
Highways bridging south and north, east and west,
Roads leading to the outskirts,
Big houses turned into a million small ones.
People inside changed decorations,
blocked out old friends,
built new streets to move towards the unknown.
your name always the same remains,
stamped on my itinerary.
face, my safe happiness,
Each summer that went by my crooked nest.
Winters were a comfort; the cold, windy streets,
I would hide under their white bushes
With my boots on. Me. Me.
But spring, O, Spring!
When spring came,
Summer drew closer, you, summer, you, us. We -again.
How did it first get to this?
I opened my eyes and today was at my window.
Spring draws further,
You draw further,
I become a feather stuck to a tiny crack in the cobblestones of the street,
Trying, in vain,
To flee with the first autumn breeze.
Your footsteps walking by me!
Forever haunting us:
Many clouds filled the sky:
Paths forever past, behind.
The road that was one:
twisted into a thousand different roads!
Reluctant to let go. Dim.
Till from the path behind
blooms an ivy road,
leading you back.
Its old smell
Its new smell
We loved its corners
Loved its traffic lights
Loved the lines of clothes off its balconies
The metric system used in its traffic signs
We loved its main streets
Its narrow paths
Its wide boulevards
We loved its cobblestone sidewalks
We loved its trees
Its lack of greenery too.
At a stone's throw away
Freshly brewed tea in the ever-boiling pot in the kitchen
Our cafes and restaurants
All the pieces of memories that we had put together in years -
They were there
Although in silence
It was more likely that we bumped into an old friend in the street
More so than bumping into a stranger we never intended to meet.
And the city slept at nights
People slept in their beds
People slept in the dark alleys behind the almost black garbage cans
In the morning they helped create traffic
In the afternoon, trying to escape it, they created it again and again.
People everywhere, in the cabs, on the bus, in the metro, in their cars, on their motorbikes
Sweat, perfume sprayed over stinky clothes, urine.
The black fog over the city
Spread from south to north
Traveling over the mountain
We never questioned our mountain.
Highways got us lost
Streets did not smile at us;
An old dingy sprawling capital
of a faded archaic treasure growing westward,
trying to conquer all possible lands
that stuck in the swamp itself and survived orally only.
vaster, a million lands.
I traveled far and deep into the winter
and found myself a girl without even one
place to call mine.
Maybe if I could buy a house
in a secluded part of town
grow plants in its garden
and water them every morning,
maybe then I could call that place mine,
and with it a whole town,
a whole city,
a whole country would rise to meet and salute me:
"Welcome foreigner! Welcome to your home!"
From having no statues to look at
From having no magnanimous pieces of architected edifice
From having no photographs of your memories long past
But you would certainly die without music
and words put into melody
Inspiration would still be there too
it could arise from the views
not the picture,
but the picturesque land.
How betrayed are you child
Did they set foot on your ground
And make you miserable darling child?
Are you coming from a house of tortures
Your past memories all filled with a savage captor;
Every morning they woke you up with the smell
Of fresh cookies brought by your torturer, your captor?
When are you going to leave that hand
Move beyond and past the tight grasp
That at first protected you such from all
And none now except his hand grasping you hard?
Life stops not at intervals, but at nights,
When your prison guard sleeps for long and deep
Remember his smile you once kissed and cherished,
And prepare him for a never-ending journey deep into the night.
The train is already moved to the next station
What remains is a blurry image of your hand
This smoke in the air till you return
With your face gazing out the window
Searching for me.
Time and time again I have been left behind
Today it is time for the birds to prey on my carcass.
Sometimes these English words, this alphabet
Seems lacking in dots. Letters that are so perfectly tied
To these linear, these circular lines.
And then a dot!
A separate existence. So imperfectly left out,
This hanging remnant of a shadow that is long departed.
Somebody hung their coat on this dot,
This small ‘i’, with a coat, this man running in the rain,
Afraid of his own shadow, afraid of that hanging coat.
No one wants to see what is left of the last herd,
The herd that died waiting for a shepherd to show up
From amid the bushes.
The English wholeness. My homeland never a whole.
My alphabet, our ancient wisdom, a set of dots and lines,
Lost in space. Each following the remnants of a missing face.
that you can meet it in the street everyday
among the piles of garbage by the florist
next to the homeless man that looks through them at night
and in the penthouse of a skyscraper of million dollars.
It's the concept that as you walk
among the myriad of men,
holds you back. Holds you back to look.
You look, and down there, down the woods,
down the frosty sidewalk, down the main road of town,
you meet with it face to face.
It's not that of an individual I celebrate
it's that of the trashy sluts and fake intellectuals both,
it's the repetitiveness, that you come by it on and on.
It's wider, greater than that. It will not die with the thunderstorm,
will not die with the earthquake in Japan, not die with guns,
not die at all even if two molecules of it evaporate in the air.
Both of us will soon go to sleep. This amazing night
The wild is not calling us anymore. Peace remains
Quiet, like lightning without the thunder. Like that
Bud on our ancient tree that blooms into marvelousness
This is home. After all. After all those evenings of solitude.
After the lonely teas and the lonesome lights of the streets.
We rose to the sky and saw the ancient tree from above
Once again. Go to sleep, tonight you are back home. And home
Will leave you again and you will have to wait for another return.
What you created with your own hands. A mess of roads and oceans,
A mess of different hours and different darknesses.
It shall burn you to your veins. Skin-deep. Leave you hanging
Between burning and surviving. Between fire and life. And your own fire,
Shall keep you warm in the northern winter again.
People walk by your window, your heart is darkened through their passing.
It stops beating as if a broken clock. You will bend forward,
With one hand up in the air, one hand pointing down towards them on the street,
Call them as they walk by. Will they listen? Will they hear? Will there be an effort?
An effort to keep the bud a bud, not let it bloom, not let it live
Towards its own death.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
The love you impart when you walk in your
Careless clothes, your hair undone, your lips
Wrinkled, your feet barely bearing the weight
Of your shapely form covered in an aura of
Unhappiness. The sad love you always impart.
In your steps there is a missing part;
A husband perhaps? A far-fetched dream you
Once had but have no more? A lifeless child
Buried in you? Something I cannot speak of.
A lover sent to the battlefield yesteryear?
When you put them together in a photograph
And look deep into their faces, imagine them
In the trenches, troops of enemies invading
The ground they sleep on, the muddy layer of
War on every surface of the personal belongings
That they have brought with themselves from home,
From the place where they were loved and born,
To this place that will soon be their grave and tomb.
And as their old eyes, the same eyes that looked
Deep into your eyes for the first time, the eyes that
Fell in love with you once you smiled back;
Those eyes, where is their rapture? Those bones
That your stews and cakes helped put flesh on,
Why are they suddenly so visible through their
Torn army uniforms that you will never sew?
And yet, as their old eyes, the same eyes that
Make you leave things unsaid, wake you up
In the middle of the night out of breath,
Gasping, sweating, as if your sleep synchronized
With those eyes and the sad fate they meet every night.
They have taken a part of you and the home they
Shared with you, into the battlefield. You are there.
They never left town, they never came back,
They never existed, they were a delusion
Of the moment; and the first time you met,
Saturday, June 4, 2011
You will never reach me
I'm so much better a runner, so much faster;
In a glimpse of an eye I run from Delhi to Chicago,
I stop only to drink water
And I wear my anorak to swim across the oceans.
And Rembrandt can't paint my portrait
Cause I'm always running.
I've bought my gravestone
And am running to get there in time.
For raising me as I am:
Upon that first bump on the road
Was a man, standing, with his arms open
To embrace me, and a whole gang of men
For me Adam is a cyclist,
racing for peace.
With such skills,
No-one would ever yield.
He keeps on riding along the world;
And yet: An apple,
He stops pedaling.
Why wouldn’t I?
Over my warm body.
The cold will not kill you today --
In the morning they will pull out
The remains of you
from under the pile of snow.
Black pigeons have lived on top of you for a night,
Have left brown souvenirs,
Have made your flawless existence