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Saturday, December 11, 2010


If I have to listen to myself,
I am to listen to me
I am to listen to I;
the sea to its whisperings,
the interval between those whisperings
where many unsaid words
have more meanings;

so listening to myself
I am to listen to you
to your self
to what you did not utter;

like my other life
when it arrives without warning
without even one single peal
of a tiny bell
like a pre-winter breeze
fresh and shaved
and as smooth
as the table of my poetry.

And by listening to myself
I will arrive at your door,
slip through the crevice
between the same door and the floor
and help you taste
the crispy sunlight
the nippy breeze,
the laughter of children
mixed with the sand
and the shore of their life;

hand you a spoonful of honey
bought from the market of humanity;

to stir up the freedom of your thoughts
sleeping curled and naked like a question mark
under blankets of a fast life,

Friday, December 3, 2010

The Sung Song

By now you should know that the song has been sung
from the bare-leaved tree of summer
pining for your lips to murmur
the elegy of the shadows getting aged with every past seconds
and whether within the timeframe of your house
the sun still shines on cloudy days, peeling onion skins,
slicing the flesh and pleading for those teardrops
that i have dried with my tongue and traced your rapturous profile.
Whether on those days naked pavement children
still play with hunger and stones
margining their life and hugging their pale emotions
close to the railway tracks.

By now the sea of green will have made love with the sky of blue
which you and i know was the common expression shared
between one layer of night and the other.
You might have gathered all your aphorisms
but one that bled green from the mango tree
whose roots lay suspended in a rectangular angle
joining the runaway night with the approaching dawn.

In the midst of these the designer store
might have been transformed into a call-girl den
where gigolos served whisky on the rocks
for an extra buck and the used condoms lay huddled
in the trash bin,
sleepy-eyed, washed corn-flour smell of hot flesh
but still sticky to the rim
whisperingly sharing their stories of froth,  
blend of panted breaths and perspirations.

At this time the panty and the brief
might have eloped on a temporary contract
gliding hand in hand over sleeping pavement dwellers
huddled in question-mark fashion,
over the many-tired pollution of the city,
even breaking traffic rules
when the slow-escaping aroma of coffee
from the closed coffee shops
mingles with the still-lingering smell of urine from the wall
and reach their nostrils.

So grotesque are the times that they see
broken lines.

By now you might have sharpened you pen
and put ink in your pencil
and colored your teats to a firmament blue;
the whistle-less train might have reached your destination
waiting for the smell of your after-bath body
waiting to hide in your nooks and cranniies’

The birds brought the smell of the sea
and the fish might have outlived the very salt
they were birthed with.
And you might be wondering the reason
For my writing this song.

It is the only live contemplation
I gave myself
to choose between my shadow and sunshine
and solitudes of quietness
when churches lost their Sunday aroma
with Saturday winning over
in the election of rest.

This I tell you not to conform
to the confirmation of doubts
but that my soul yearns to seal the contract
of togetherness in loneliness
solitudes in togetherness
the way the sky weeps at a rakish angle
shedding its light and water
in its wholeness of together-solitudes.

Thursday, December 2, 2010

The Great Band

i am haunted by this scene every night

Macbeth plays the lead guitar
when Dylan sings It’s Alright Ma.
king Duncan dances with Cinderella
after handing his crown to his maid
and Tagore warmly worries the bass
as Julius Caesar beats on the drum
from his open grave.

Please help me come out of thiis trap
lady macbeth was unable to...

Wednesday, December 1, 2010


Word, you are a wonder and I am in love,
with you.
So many forms you appear in:
Word, I want to elope with you
from the rear window  of my poetry caravan
compose the most passionate poem
on you                    
under shady palm trees sighing in secret conspiracy
with the calm water around an island.

You wrap your legs around the waist of my poetry
and sink my mood
into the island of Lostness.