Tears

Words rumble and roll down mountains of youth;
Down valleys and rivers and gurgling brooks
until they come to rest in this darkened pool.
It is still and empty
and
the magnificent thunder of silence
rings in my ears.

I wept for the stranger in the photograph.

Stand as high as you can and hold the sunbeams in your hand;
isn't possession all you want?
Irrelevant human.

The tears were so silent. So sudden.

Pick up the shattered glass pieces of your life
and hold them to the light.
Let them tell the story you're afraid to hear.

My face, my neck, and my collarbones.
Wet. The ridges and curves
it took thousands of years to perfect.
Atavistic mechanism activated.
Watch the lights and the shadows
dance in the belly of time. Impatient.

Hold my salt-dried face in the hollows of your hands.
Let me cry if I need to.

Someday, I want to be
a poem that would shake you.

Grey

In the chaos in my mind, there are images, fleeting.
A yellow window with shadows flitting.
Footsteps. Leaves. Bad decisions.
Later, sitting on a pile of chairs,
I could be the last one left here.
The crumpled edges of clouds float by.
The leaves forget to flutter. I hold on
to the armrests, grabbing them tight.
I'm in a ship, unsunk, yet
floundering in this maelstrom.

The meowing cats and graying sky,
violently loud to my silent mind.
Momentary madness.
And everything gets rolled up
and punches me in the gut.
It's heavy as iron. Rusted and raw.

Sunday afternoons are the worst.
One doesn't know what one is waiting for.
Everybody is a mystery. Everything obscure.
Freedom was always the colour of the sky -
Until it faded into a pale, washed-out grey.
The clicking keyboard. The bent back.
Unable to really look up, to see. To change.
To run like the wind into faster days,
instead of easing into the future
like pickle leaking out of a labelled glass bottle.
Staining the mantelpiece a shadowed blood red.

What am I doing? I should be doing something.
But I look around, and it hurts even more.
The lives, so many, hollowed out,
like the deep gorges carved on aged faces.
It makes no sense. The ache in my chest,
it deepens. Homo demens.
I drift further. In my mind, even further.

When I'm desperate, though, it's easy to console myself.
You see this mess? It isn't me.
I live far too meaningfully.
My real life isn't here.
It's by the swaying trees
far away. Where the sky is blue,
and the birds sing anew every day.
And I'll watch the clouds from there:
By the fields where the dogs lay.

Numbness

A hundred, a thousand
neatly folded slices of history
carelessly packed by grimy hands
handed to guards, deposited in yards
and street names and numbers zoom
past wobbling bicycles
the day awakens lustily.

A hundred, a thousand
cups of tea
a veritable ocean on the stoves
of a thousand squalling kitchens.
Early morning hands unfold the papers,
bleary eyes peer through warm tea vapors.
Sleep swollen mouths sip, pause.

         what
                    and he died
          again
                         cheating
      and lying
                          we died
again.

Sip again. Swallow.
What does it take for a man to give up?
For a spirit as wide as a sea to hollow.
What does it take to kill a child? Hold down a woman?
What does it take to steal, to lie,
To die. To kill.

A hundred, a thousand
stories we tell. Can you imagine
the sheer power of newsprint
deliberate and dark
holding tight behind walls of alphabets
stories of infinite endless unspeakable violence.
Day after day
                  after day
                           after day
                                       after

and we are numbed, blunted
heavy thuds leave no impact
sharp jabs provoke no pain
we have layers and layers
of middle-class protection, of artificial conscience

We have lives to live.
Lives to lose.

So we read
halfheartedly about
Suffering;
watch it on the screens
keep it fresh with the coriander leaves
in the fridge, cool
under the children's mattresses
behind cobwebs in cupboards
hidden under the scream of the pressure cooker.

Someday we will do something about it.
For now, fold and live.
Fold and live.

Getting Lost

"The art of losing isn't hard to master,
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster." (Elizabeth bishop)

Beginning after ending is so strange,
Going the whole way, learning and unlearning,
Growing and shrinking. Believing. Losing.
In psychology, they say
development is not linear -
it takes the form of a spiral.
Can you see it?
You, in the roller coaster of your life.
Constantly in flux.
Progressing, then regressing.
Before moving on, you must assimilate.
You must consolidate.
And yet, you might go right ahead and do the stupid thing.
After learning better, you might fall harder.

So be patient.

Sunlight slants through the blinds,
A yellow gloom rises in the room.
I feel the soft-footed nostalgia of a thousand things
that are yet to happen. My heart swells up like a raincloud.

I'm a little lost. A little found.
A bit of a square peg,
and yet a little round.
Who I was is now folded in flowers.
Deliberated in memories unearthed in weaker hours.
Who I was became who I am,
before I could lose myself again.

A man bears beliefs like tree bears fruits -
And love and life will grab you right by the roots,
Shake up each and every one of your truths.
What remains? Spiraling onward,
Weary traveler of time,
Be patient.

Stand up to your full height in the storm,
            and succumb.
Let the wind take you where it may,
Let yourself be blown away.

Let yourself be found,
In the art of getting lost.

Life lies in the gentle caress, the fierce passion
of Love. In the vulnerability of living and losing
and living again. There will be a thousand endings,
I assure you, there will be a thousand beginnings.
A thousand truths you and I will reach,
and a thousand more we might lose on the way.

Let yourself get lost.
In the depth of the darkness,
in the eye of the storm,
you will be found.

So be patient.

Looking For You

In this tumultuous chatter
falling around me, leaves underfoot
crunching in the solid pain of chaos
the horizon, stretching from side to side -
and wide! - wide as a river in spate,
wide as my eyes
watching for you
silent, unnerved
by your fists, your mouth
the shadows you own
the various countries that are yours
in the timelessness of your body
I am lost.

I wake and I sleep
all in a dream, it seems
and somewhere
I have to begin to search
although
not for answers, answers
will come when it is time
Rilke smiles.
Irreverence, irrelevance
on the same hand.
Somewhere in this mess,
in the endless oceans of myself
I have to find the summer
to begin.
Only then
can I find the dried leaves, the snow
the reds and yellows
the autumns of leaving
and in all their glorious
chapters and smells,
the endings
that lead to endless doors.

Which one are you behind?
How could you expect me to find
you, in this tumultuous chatter.
In this horizon, this seasonless matter.

April 30 : Uncontained Endings

There's something about dying roses.

A sense of an ending
strangely poignant
in the crisp twisted petals
and the tangy scent of death.

And well, it's too cold,
the sky is too grey;
my tea is too hot,
my heart is out to bay.
And my arms are simply too goosebumped to hold you tight.

So wrap me up in some clingfilm
and leave me out to dry:
I'm a soaked out desert in a concrete maze
and today, I can't help but lie.
I lost all my maps and I lost all my guides, how can I possibly reach the light?

Floating in the empty sea
I watch the sun rise and I watch it set
the purples and reds surround me and fade
taking me with them to the land of the dead.

Marmalade stains on ragged blankets
line the lining of your heart.
Time seems to move in jerks and falls
sepia-tinted pictures mark the walls.

An abyss of beginnings, endings,
aftereffects (and mayhapses)
rises around the dying fire.
Someday we shall look back and smile
It'll happen, just give it a while.

My heart is full from this night
and my eyes are on you.
Let us walk away from this day
as uncontained as you.

Morality and humanity
sit by the ashes of our souls.
Mark My Words and In My Opinions
are tossed back and forth in rolls.

My coarse shirtsleeves fend off
burning smoulders from the fire.
But who'll be around to hold my hands
when I rest my shoulders in the pyre?

April 29 : City Boy.

From the thick-grilled windows
in the tall concrete buildings
caked with the dirt of hopelessness
you watch the streets, silent.
Four fifty-five. Tick tock.
An uncontained numbness is in your eyes,
lending a certain desperation to your lies.
But somewhere, your soul is alive.

Dappled remains of sunshine
on the rippling surface
green-clear.
The stones writhe under every surge
of white-foamed froth.
The valley closes in on you
and opens up her skies.
Silver ropes slam into the water
ploughing it up like
so much gunfire.
Wind crashes into your face
with all the gentleness of a scorned lover
and all the grace.
You gaze into the heavens
wet and still.

Shirt sticking to chest
clammy hands on solid ground
cold feet soaked into hiking shoes
hair plastered back, you smile.

With the sting of every raindrop
(like so many shards of glass)
you feel alive. Slowly cracks the precious farce
the layers and the lies peel off from sheer force
and you dissolve into the torrent of froth
that the river rages against the rocks. You dissolve
into the air and the thunder, into the mossy pine trees;
you are so much more than a City Boy.

What has a City? Neon lights.
Unpleasant smells and painful sights.
Grimy legless men with begging bowls
outside of fancy boutiques. Angry men.
So many crying children. Unhappy people
unsatisfied with their lives and their wives.
Empty eyed old woman with unreal smiles;
Black-suited shiny-booted clones with files.
A dull sort of heartache throbbing around the
skyscrapers and steeples and heavy court buildings.
A concrete maze leading deeper and deeper
into the heart of nothing. Aching.
And in the grey and the garish
you sometimes forget the reasons
you often clench your jaw and your fist
and tears escape your bottled heart
(brimming over in frustration)
but you cannot remember
(or perhaps you never knew).
And then nothing seems to be worth it,
nothing seems real at all.

But under the fiery gray heavens
under the stoic mountainsides
under the raindrops and the burning sunshine
on your soul, you will remember.
And once you live to be more than
a gray City Boy under grimy neon lights,
you might never forget again.

The precious thunder of the river rages on;
perhaps that's what happiness is made out of.

April 28 : Dreamcatchers And Wanderlust

Soft lines mark out
deep honey coloured eyes
in a hard smiling face.
Tinted glasses (the colour of the night)
perched upon beautiful little nose.
Shining self-consciously in a dull, lifeless crowd;
in her monochromed life, alarmingly bright.

Well-fitted starched clothes to work. Heels.
Businesslike, brisk. Confident and composed.
After all, a life to live: built up
so carefully from fragments
of cracked porcelain dreams
picked out and held against
the blinding lights of reality:
the commonplace ruins of practicality.
It hides well her inner romantic, in this melancholy city.
But beneath the shells and layers and memories
her soul is made of dreamcatchers and wanderlust.

Behind the dark-tinted sunglasses lie her secrets
(open sometimes to those who float above shallow waters,
open to herself some of the time against a solid, dependable life
mother, daughter, lover and wife)
a worldfull of chances and mayhaps
built up so carefully from a perfect life
a house of cards rising against the gleaming glass counters
as order falls, the tentative yearning for chaos.
Within the whirl of her embroidered Indian skirt
lie rugged mountains and infinite oceans
exotic-skinned people, deep purple sunsets,
skyscrapers and windbreakers and railwaystation tea
dizzy late-night drives on winding roads and
comfortable blankets against pine-smelling fireplaces:
after all
her soul is made of dreamcatchers and wanderlust.

She lives in the night sky, with the stars;
casting aside demons with a twist of her arm
she puts away fear gently on the windowsill, rain-stained.
Pale skin bruised, fat ego tight-lipped, integrity intact.
Smug about her maelstrom of adventure (sipping her chai
against the pounding pain in her skull, shining eyes
half tear-filled and half innocent eagerness)
she doesn't hold back. She lets it fly, her anger
and her pain and her endless sky-filled joy;
floating, she dissolves in herself
pointing at beautiful sight after sight
against this rose-tinted horizon
in her night-tinted glasses.
Her sorrow she holds quite tight to her chest
wrapped up in ancient insecurities
she is silent, gathering it all in a single
tightly clenched fist at the end of an arm
held quite open against the thundering wind
threatening to topple her over
today.

And she will think more and cry more
see more and sigh more
she will have more to regret
more to repress
but she will have lived more than anybody
in these narrow crowded streets and spaces
(against the tight-set faces, the long-healed traces).
With the risk and the fear, she pulls into her arms
all the joy of the world. Complete and untainted
(as it is only when it comes with a price
as it is just when it's undented and unpainted).
Joy that comes with the hunger for knowledge,
experience, good food and endless love.
Joy as gentle as it is proud,
as silent as it can be loud.
She smiles, balanced solidly upon shaky ground
floating simply on the ephemeral clouds:

after all
her soul is made of dreamcatchers and wanderlust.

April 27 : Fighting The Sky

Hammer-shaped thunderclouds
Preside singularly over rain dripped roads.
The pebbled black tar, soaked, holds tight to its chest
the living memory of a two-dimensional toad.
Pressed into the earth, with all the love of a passionate collector
driven over ferociously with all the pain-stained wheels
of a hundred steel monsters and garishly bright bicycles
soul squished into subservience under polished heels.

A hundred yards away
you lay
fighting the sky
with the might of an army
the size of a lie.

Grey roads lit up
with grimy neon lights
the city looks alive
(like a corpse, bright
under the shroud of the
prescient night and the
sinuous approaching dawn).
I sit, quiet, inured to your ragged breathing,
the sight of popping veins in your tightened fists
that inviolable look in your solipsistic eyes,
even your lurid words, acerbic to my ears.

And the maelstrom of the night
gathered her skirts about her, tight
grasping persistently in her slender fingers
the ephemeral skyline spread across an eternal horizon,
coming into focus with the first rays of light.

I watch over you as you writhe
I watch over as you cry.
I listen to your honest rants
And I listen as you lie.

Sometime when the still-damp roads
start filling up with dusty cars
zooming close and then further away
in the effulgent light of the early morning
you sigh.
And I pick you up in my weathered arms
silhouetted against the nebulous sky
I gently arrange your porcelain limbs
upon this tautly stretched car seat
your pristine (yet pallid) face looking up
your shaking hands unwilling to accept defeat.
I prise your stiffened fingers off my scarred arm
and slowly touch your face. The car groans and jerks,
and I have one hand upon the steering wheel
one upon your precious china-like cheek
your lashes, dampened into triangles of a grief
unknown to mankind, lower until you are asleep.
And we are ready to begin this journey again,
driving into the far horizon (of my eyes and your tortured soul).

April 26 : Art And The Artist

Raindrops trickle down
reality-tinted window panes
exhausted legs crumple
onto an unmade bed.

Bare walls. Bare arms.
Tendrils of black hair
reach the small of her back,
arched like a taut-stringed bow.

Slender fingers settle the pillows
Pull at a plug for the perfect light.
She arranges her long, shapely limbs
around her, her grey eyes ask
if she's doing it right.

And you can see every muscle
move precisely, supple,
an ocean beneath the velvet skin.
And his eyes sit silent, just taking it in.

Erect in his hand, he holds
his tool of the trade
(his beautiful red-brown paintbrush)
and he waits.
With his paints gathered around him
in an order decided upon years ago,
a grimy cup of water (stained green and deep).
He watches her
silently with an air of detached awe.

Her mouth seems to never be still,
His hands move like moths around light.
He sees not her - he sees through her
into the light of her soul
behind the long still lashes
of her sky-grey eyes.
Her collarbones, the hollows
and the hills of her curves.
Her shoulders, gracefully
forming those arms, light brown,
gentle down shining in the twilight.
The straight arc of her spine
placed strategically
between the beautiful indentations
in the small of her back.
He sees the mole on her hip.
The birthmark on her ankle,
shaped like a shard of
freshly broken glass
ragged.

The paints swirl around on the canvas,
gentle, the brush flows as if by itself.
His hand is the crevices
guiding the river of the brush
gushing down the topography that
is her body.

He isn't himself,
he doesn't need to see the bills in the broken bowl
in the dusty apartment rise up to the roof,
he doesn't need to work at the smelly restaurent
down by the dockside or wait for a phonecall
from a family that left. He is more than
the sum of his individual peculiarities (the way
he scratches his nose when he's uncomfortable
how he hunches when he walks, his torn pockets
that lose him pennies, that he will never sew
his light-furred cat and how he scrunches up his
face when he laughs, his shoebox of tear-stained letters
safe at the back of his closet), he can matter.
He is a catalyst, he will see and he will move,
his eyes (with his own special perception of the world and
her scar-stained forearms) and his hands (his beautiful hands)
are the only parts of him that mean anything. He is an Artist.

She isn't herself,
she can forget the cursed whitewashed walls of this
godforsaken studio and the magazines that rejected
her and the men that hounded her down till she relented
and slept with them in the salty mattresses and the thin
blankets, hard like stale bread, she can move beyond
the repressive childhood and the bad decisions to get out
of her town, to mean something to the world and fail
all over again, like her mother said she would.
She is more than all that. She is Art. And she
watches him with open mouth, in awe of his awe
of her. This is all she wanted when she asked them
to photograph her, not fame or money, she just
wanted to be Art in somebody's eyes for a while,
so that she could be Art in her own grey oceans.

She is still.
He pauses, looks at the foggy grey outside.
Sliced up by electric wires, into disorderly gashes
of rain-coloured sky, stretched out so far, so long
that the melting horizon looks painfully ephemeral.
He never wants to leave this room
she never wants to leave his sight.