April 23 : The Magician/ Beginnings

In a slow grey-white memory
at the back of my head
I see her.

Running up the stairs
on her slender little legs
(two steps at a time)
with a plump little friend beside
she smiled.

Her eyes were large
on her small face.
Her voice shrill
with the innocence
of childhood.

Words came easy to her
pencils lived happily
in her little-fingered hand
the world was big and scary
but she was a happy kid.

She ran down the stairs
(in the depressing gaudy colors
that murderous schoolteachers
paint the furniture to make it look
like they aren't doing a terrible job
of growing these kids up well)
and she framed it in her head.
The words. The sound of them.
Selecting, regarding, rejecting.

The poem was about a magician.
The rest is a blur.

Her parents hugged her and
told her she was wonderful
(and they went on doing that
all her life).
And she was proud too.
Of herself.
Which is the best kind of proud
that you ever can be.

A decade later
a lover of words
a fanatic like never before
as the hammer of that
painful peeve of every poet
(writer's block, they call it)
rested upon her head
(where are the words?
Why would they leave me
at a time like this? Am I all out?
Is it over, am I dead?)
she threw it back
and remembered.

And because she was
technically challenged
and couldn't convert that old file
to read it again
on this stupid computer
she clenched her fist and her jaw
and hated her life.

But reason prevailed
and what matters
matters.
Sometimes it's important
to go back to the basics.
Go cycling down memory lane
with child-proof pepper spray
and watch for a while.
The joy of beginnings.
Of things meant to last.
Of happy memories
from forever ago
and poetry written
with staunch large-eyed
love for the written word.

Post Script :
And magicians never fascinated me,
I couldn't write a poem on one if I tried
(I did try) so then sometimes we surprise ourselves,
don't we? (seven year old me, what is up with this?)

April 22 : Nighttime.

Falling through doors
flat long spaces
flying through large
incomprehensible places

I pause.

And in the dark
(it's the shroud of the nighttime
a sheen of velvet clad dreams
flecked with stars and celestial beings
like you) I shut my eyes.
And I stretch out to you
(the far, deep corners of myself)
and I float.

Blurs of trees pass by.
People blurs. Dog blurs.
In the daytime when I am still
my mind is still and calm
they will mean more. But
I let the blurs blur past me
in a desperate attempt
to seize something
which I lost long ago.
Streetlights zoom
in onto my soul.

And if I open my eyes
to the blinding darkness
perhaps I will see your eyes
(a sickly grey, flecked with sad stars)
and perhaps I won't.

And when the nights grow longer
beneath my blankets and my leg
fidgets incessantly but my eyes
are still, you will sleep.
When the piano keys
fall off with the sounds
of breaking hearts and
the moon swells up
with fattened sky and
gentle arms rocking it
to sleep in the gentle hammock
of the precious nighttime.

April 21 : You and I

The night was threatening
to tear right open
at the stretched out seams
at the end of that day.
You know.
Your arm across my shoulder
and my hand so inextricably
intertwined in yours
I thought I'd never get it free.

And I was glad of it.

I did get it free
and I did leave
eventually,
unceremoniously.
And you walked away quietly
after months of magic
and never seemed to look back.
You swept yourself away
into the ocean
and left me with ruins
of sandcastles and seashells
tangled seaweed in my salt-dried hair.

But that night you held me
as if I were precious
and behind your hundred lashes
deep in your flecked eyes
I could swear I saw the distant sea
for the first time, the sorrow.
And I'd broken your heart
a hundred times but never as much
as that day, I believed.
And we talked and we laughed
as if nothing was wrong and
the day passed in a single blink
(of eyelashes glued together
into tear-shaped triangles).

And we had regrets and
we made mistakes and
we stayed apart for far too long.
But when I hugged you for the last time
something broke (and yet, something was
mended beyond repair, deep inside).
And you wrote me things I always wanted
to hear (but I was too afraid to listen and
you too afraid to speak). And I wept
and I shuddered and I wiped my snotty nose
and prepared myself for a new life.

And you never asked again and
you never spoke again and you left
(although you didn't have to) the moment
I did. A ticket, far off, to somewhere else.
And you smiled at me distantly from behind
thick glass panes, and you went on with
things I never knew you needed. And
you grew.

Once,
you saved me from uncertain dark days
with your warm glow from afar.
You walked down long streets
and forgave me often, you
make me laugh at the smallest things
under this wide incomprehensible sky.
And now we're familiar strangers
in a strange sort of labyrinth
where thick-hedged walls
lead back to where we can't go
(I see you cross me but I must stay still,
your mind is suddenly a painful mystery)
and the sky gets darker
with every passing starless night.
Perhaps it's better to sit
silently behind you. I'd
hate to disturb your search,
your incomplete lamp-lit life
(but I can hear you breathe,
can't you hear me sigh?)

April 20 : Invincible

I am invincible
as long as I'm alive.
And those words are beautiful enough
to almost put an agonized mind to rest.
Because they are hopeful, they are crazy,
and they are infinitely true.

Who says you can't fly?
In the right moment
(Off the high-rise building, not yet
a bloody heap on the concrete tiles)
You are a bird. You are.
Afloat on the fluttering edges
of the wind, of the sky,
of a hundred quiet butterflies.

And cynicism seeps into the
crevices of a happy mind
(slowly, steadily, but surely)
an addictive drug and such a poison
to the mind of a self-proclaimed idealist.
Cynicism seeps into the well-meaning smiles
and the helping hands, every honest word
and the crazy, endlessly inconsistent world.

Wrapped up tightly in layers of
(judgmental, precocious) myself
I will never grow.
But who can afford to shed
one's shell when it's all we're sure of
(defenses built up
over days and months
decisive sub-conscious decisions
and angry tears),
who can be open to the world,
and all it will hand out,
thoughtlessly, selflessly,
maliciously?

And in my head
I will walk in forests and mountains
at midnight, I will swim naked
with the moon. In my head
I will drive to nowhere
and live there for a while.
Try new food. Love a lot.
Talk to strangers on buses,
decide on obsessive future crushes.
Call old lovers and kiss them smilingly,
Take new friends on ridiculous road trips.
Be unafraid and loud and
crazily, wildly, wonderfully happy
and sometimes sad, very sad.

But in reality,
I will be quiet. I will sleep a lot.
I will eat from menus decided years ago,
and never do anything new to my hair.
I will read in front of my bonfire
with Maya, my cat. Never travel
by public transport. Never learn
how to drive. Shy away from strangers
and hide away from friends. Be proud of
the same things I did ten years ago.
And I will be content, and satisfied
and I will be happy, and I will be sad
But I will survive. I will smile occasionally
at myself in the mirror, thinking
'I'm not doing so bad'.

And in my incapacitating fear,
in my cowardice,
I will be a sort of invincible.
Inside I will be vulnerable
(but my sleeves will be long
and my heart locked up
somewhere deep inside)
but outside, I will be
protected, I will be wise.
Well, I'll be invincible
(admittedly, a dull sort).

April 19 : Patchwork

Perhaps,
when I get up
(woozy from the headrush
and the strange fatigue of
being awake)
the world is different.
Puffy eyes and guileless smile
watch the sunlight prance about
(my hair my legs my dirty foot)
and the world seems as whole
as the sky is wide.

An exquisite creation
of a single polished piece of wood.
Flawless in the way
only sleepy eyes can see.

And perhaps, as the day goes on
building up on all the emotions and striations
and dissapointments and fluctuations and frustrations
that days are fundamentally made up of
the world changes somewhat.
As memories slide into your mind
refusing to be evanescent, ever
realizations and regrets never far behind
perhaps, as you plodder on respectably through today
finally reaching the time when
reasonably, you can call it a day
and fall headfirst into blankets that don't judge
by the time the stars are out and the moon is high
the world is quite different.

Through the crack of open window
you can see the deep blue sky
laced intimately with twinkling stars
and it isn't whole anymore
it's a virtual spiderweb of faults and cracks
a patchwork of fallen stars and dreams
woven together by a schizophrenic lifetime
and the world is strange
and half asleep, you're more awake
than ever you were.
Nothing is whole
(but nothing incomplete)
every misfit fits into the jigsaw
in a profound sort of way.
And craning your neck
you can almost see
the fluttering edges
of your patchworked life
closing in on you.
Gently.

April 18 : Tomorrows

Sleeping, eating, watching, learning.
Falling, laughing, waiting, hurting.
Sometimes
wanting
(things
like flying to the end
of where the earth meets the stars
or your eyes meet mine
and the stars all collapse
and letting go
you know
or strawberries and things)
sometimes wishing
(that today was longer
or tomorrow shorter,
little things
like matters of life and death
or big things
like milkshakes and smiles).

And today
this moment
is only mine
and that lends a certain freedom
to the cages in which I live
alone.
And today
this moment
is now alone
(this here)
and jumping into the sea
holding hands with you
is always the best thing to do.

It's a tough business
responsibility
(entailing trust and reliability
and patience and wisdom and love
and well, who the hell
knows what that is)
so we will think about that someday
when we grow up and
stuff.
But for today
let us cycle to the end of the world
(or the street)
let us read with hot chocolate in our hands.
Let us cuddle in warm blankets
(sing to me, please)
under the stars in a distant land.

And maybe I don't want to remember
the things that must be remembered.

We'll yawn in the afternoons
and yell at strangers on the street
we'll be silent when it's dark
and be lonely alone.
And because I'll have to trust you
(and be patient and wise)
because dependence is for those
who know themselves enough
to be faithful. That's why I'll
love you (like I love the moon,
from afar) but leave you
when the stars are out and
I'm tired of today.
Tomorrows,
I've learnt,
are better walked into alone.
Saner calmer bigger truer.

April 17 : Almost Rain

It might rain.
In the telltale shimmer of
dying flowers, the
petals on this polished floor
scratching against the wooden door.
Clanging bottles. City sounds.
In the bottom of my glass
(when almost nothing is left)
all I see is your resentment
(those eyes, oh, the knives)
Perhaps that's my fear, oh dear.

Monosyllabic and cynical
the line of conversation
hangs on a string so loose
that my words never seem
to reach your ears.
Or yours mine.

Thunder against the windows
fluttering leaves (and lives).
I'm afraid to say
what I really want to
(there will be no entanglement
this illusion will shatter
once taut, our strings will
break with a touch and that is why)
I am afraid.

The wind rushes at the walls
with the anger of a thousand horsemen
and I clench my fist
under the table
and I tighten the knot
of my legs till I can almost
feel nothing anymore
But I smile at you gently,
comfortingly. Because that
is what you deserve. My love.

Lightning
and then it's all so bright
blinding
for a second your eyes
for a second you seem to
understand
and the flash passes and
I might die
here in this booth with you
tonight.

The night is dark
my insides are dark
and I can feel the searing pain
in my eyeballs
only when I let my lids droop.
I might just collapse
into this night
(and then will
my dreams and ambitions
and fears and nightmares
all compress into a point
somewhere where I am
or was
and create a vortex
sucking everything
into the infinity of darkness
that my presence left behind?)

The glass panes rattle
with the effort of staying whole.
So do I
perhaps (hopefully), so do we.
Sitting unburnished
in the dark still night.

April 16 : Don't Worry

Don't worry,
we all live like that.
Slowly pulling out days
from the wad of chewing gum
that is our life.
Stretching them until
they are taut
and suddenly,
they break away
(quite suddenly)
into unknown tomorrows.

And patchworked timelines
of fuzzy histories
live behind us
into clean, new days.
When all of us has been
broken and ground
into the ground
all that will remain
will make you shudder
but keep you sane
in the sorry state
of sanity that the world endorses.

And glasses of water will be drunk
and many stale meals eaten.
Cross legged some will sit
but we will sit on our haunches.

And those who run as a way of life
will never be able to stand the paunches
of men who gave up (or tried and failed)
and decided to sit down.

So, dream.
In concrete jungles
and inane conversations
piss-stained walls of remorse
silent voices once hoarse
days and months and
lives gone by;
old drops of bloods
on sanitized sheets
and ashes on somebody's
mourning mantelpiece.
Grieve silently
for the sea,
if you can.
If you know how.

April 15 : This Porcelain Evening

The moon sits fatly

in a hundred puddles

in potholed roads and broken hearts.

The city feels old tonight,

It doesn't seem much will go right.

The seams of this moonful night

sit taut against the rest of our lives.

The sky is low above our heads

grey in a melancholy way.

Your soul sits quietly in a corner

further away from either me

or you

than I have seen it before.

Where are you?

You run through streets

dark and winding

evading me and

grinding

the sidewalk with

calloused feet,

through murky infinite streets.

Break this porcelain evening apart

all it will take is a nudge

or a look,

the wrong kind of words

or the right kind of book.

Don't be afraid,

touch it, the moon

tonight it is yours alone.

See through me

into your own infinity

I never wanted to bind you,

I never thought I could blind you,

All I wanted was to quietly

walk behind you.

Someday when you reach

the end of yourself

and begin the arduous journey

back home

know that I will be at your bedside

with your head in my lap

and your eyelids

(with the universe, or a single moonlit night

encased behind your dark, thick lashes)

will droop 

and I will catch your consciousness

in my loving arms

I will never let down your expansive soul

if ever you let it fall

unto me.

April 14 : Of a childhood

Of a blood-red bottlebrush tree,
of a sturdy little house,
of mangoes in the summer,
and the occasional mouse.

Of lemon shaped soaps
and smiling goodmornings,
of somedays and maybes and
tacky fairy wings.

Of footballs and markers
and silly bunny ears.
Of long car drives
and sometimes angry tears.

Of poetry in the night time
and dancing in the rain,
of long forgotten holidays,
and an old grandfathers cane.

Of dreamy eyes and films,
of books, salads and shoes,
of laughter and rugs and beer
and shorts and pants too loose.

Of grassless gardens all year,
of paints and ideas and poses.
Of happy children and schoolbags,
hugs and tangled hands, and roses.

Of a beautiful mother,
Strong and brave and wild.
A Good Man for a father,
Happy nostalgia of being a child.