The Galaxy Of White
From white
to white
I behold upon
the white fountain of wings;
to the white explosion of feathers,
and
the sky array of white angel-tots
suckling birth
from
kindled nipples
of sunrays
From white
to white
the white cape of light
on the white shoulder of flight
and
fountain to fountain
molten platinum
splashing
out of
the night
From the white embraces of distance to the white
rebellion flocks
of flying horses
From the whiteness of sugar lamps
From the whiteness of sweetness
From the white canal of sugarcane
From the white warp of tune
from the white woof of words
to the white textile of
songs
From the whiteness of the paper
and the tangles of node
and
unrolled
eloquence
of the feelings
From the white
diaries of silence
From white velvet
of music
blandishing
the auricle of the silence
From the white dehiscent
of
sentiment
in the white vein
of
poetries
From the white cradle of radiance
that rocks
in the tail of the goblets
From white
to white
From moon,
the white heart of the nights
From the moon to start the white celebration of nights
the white celebration of lights
the celebration of whites
in the moonlight.
The Gamble
Before the game of gamble, starts
it is already paid for.
Your losing is only the matter of time,
not poor probabilities.
And your winning is as superficial
as the time’s constancy,
a pendulum that never arrives
no matter how fast and far it goes,
no matter how many steps
on the staircase of time,
no matter how good a player you are
or all the good players you've already chosen to be
and you are already an audience of,
no matter how your participation
is made believe.
The Tear Of The Time
All the tick-tocks of the clocks
are the tempos of a sewing machine
mending the gash of perfection
All the tick-tocks of the clocks
are the tempos of a sewing machine
mending the gash of perfection
in our minds.
To patch
every promise of sculpting
to the quintessence of telic sculptures,
inside the unkempt rocks,
every scenic scene, and sublimity
to the blankness,
every word, every tone
to
the sonnet and symphony,
of silence.
every penumbra tick-tock of the clocks
behind the bars of time
is the zigzag of
a sewing machine
ceaselessly
stitching the tears of perfection.
To patch
every promise of sculpting
to the quintessence of telic sculptures,
inside the unkempt rocks,
every scenic scene, and sublimity
to the blankness,
every word, every tone
to
the sonnet and symphony,
of silence.
every penumbra tick-tock of the clocks
behind the bars of time
is the zigzag of
a sewing machine
ceaselessly
stitching the tears of perfection.
When We Aren't Equal
When we are unequal we lose one another,
we lose our butterfly,
our wings, our willingness to urge,
to flow to the flower beds,
floating on the surface of the radiances ,
flowering the dream of gardens.
When we are unequal we lose
our merit of being a bloom,
pinning the meadows
in the butterfly preen of a garden,
we lose our ability of combusting
on the bonfires of blossoms,
on the flame of petals,
in square thurible of the seasons.
When we are not equal
we are lonely, separated, wobbling and harsh
we aren’t no more scales, seesaws,
we aren’t one we aren’t us:
-the two sides of a coin,
of a kiss,
of a visage
-the two question marks that make a heart-
we are not accordant,
we are not symmetrical,
we aren’t beautiful,
we aren’t musical,
we’re crude when we aren't equal,
then
the world loses its true poise;
the poise then would be something lost in us
that to find it we lose ourselves in everything
-like Elward who searched in everything for “Liberty”.
-When we are not equal
we have lost something in the alleys of ourselves,
something that we prowl in every mirror searching for it,
something that to fined it
we create the world
on and on
again.
When we are not equal
in all the flower gardens
in the canvas of all painted petals,
in the bows of all the reminiscences,
on the sail of all the winds,
on the pasturage of all the bird songs,
in all the gardens’ alleys of conception, and creation,
with our butterfly net
we run after
to catch.
Between the Tastes of Lemons & Watermelons
She was passing coastlessly across the coasts
when I saw her
in the shore of an endless dream.
The girl that was walking in the side
walk,
a childhood of, the woman that I loved
along passage with no passers-by,
in the shore of a childhood
that was brimming of people and loneliness.
A girl was paddling in a shoreless sea,
a carriage in the sea of the desert mirage.
I saw her in the shorelessness of one’s eyes,
the beautiful girl that I always had in the eyes.
The echo of a whistle
in the intersection of the seasons!
The sound of a train that brought me always back to life!
The railway that crossed the edges!
The train that was me
though always was gone without me!
A girl that the pink roses of breeze
always blossomed on her cheek,
and wafted her heirs like the night river!
She was everywhere and she was in all the mirrors.
She passed through everything.
The train that its station was every beautiful thing!
She was my girl
and I saw her
in the eternity of a first glance;
a glance always existed regardless of me.
I saw her
wearing every blossoms in spring
and every summer fruit,
with a hat brimming over the horizons,
the strip pants made of every road,
a shirt splats the summer in the cleavage
between the taste of lemon and watermelon.
In the Toy Shop
In the rainbow boxes of preference,
they each are
an object of reference,
a getaway to the different world of imagination and dream
filled with ferries and angels of glorious themes:
Danseuses that their dances have never ended,
momentums, forever, in their prime suspended.
Princes and princesses of unknown terrains
in various trains of strains.
Glorious kings matched up with their majestic queens.
This little world of not very corresponding figures of figurines,
in their proportion
though not in the notion.
These still pantomimes of commotion
yet all synchronized in some historic, mythic or magical sparks of emotions,
inside the ornamental effigy jars of seductive potion
in these diminutive bombastic objects of devotion,
coming together
in a simple harmonic motion:
a woman embracing the air in her hair,
a soldier
fighting for fair,
a knight dashing to dare,
lions grouching to scare,
a world of so many differences, put forward to share:
They all exist, in their stillness's disguise,
They all are together, yet each one is an indication to the different world of marvel and size,
a getaway to another funfair of mind's eyes:
midgets mocking and cows are mowing and dogs are awaiting their barks,
children are playful in their fancy little boxes of ecstasy,
leaking and falling to another trough of department:
fantasy!
Poetry Café
You burned me with this winter in your heart
I am truly being burned.
This snow, is dark and white.
This is the most sublime bittersweet
I have ever tasted
in this café in the alleys between now and then,
between whiteness
and dark,
between roasted beans and nipples of the meadows
nights
with
crescent melting in your mouth
and a chocolate cooky
iced all in stardust.
You are there now,
in an astral poetry café
where you do not need to write poetry,
everything that you see,
Everything that you seep on
Everything that you say,
is versified on their own :
ethereal,
glamorous,
bereaved and blue
excruciating,
eye-opening,
emancipating
and the most human.
Moth
I have seen you in darkness
like a moth that was going towards the fire.
I burned
for darkness was cold,
unkindness and tenderlessness are always dark.
And flame even though deadlier than cold
yet
it is more enfolding and corresponding.
Hell is more in huglessness than in fire.
It is passionless, an abscess erupting of cold space.
It is unkindness that tore its chain.
It is those eyes that are not attached to any soul.
Hell is
where you are not holding my hand
in darkness.
For Acting
Everything is for acting
I am an entertainer
I am the actor who dies convincing his audience he is dead!
Like, Omar Khayyam, I am the creator of a grail
who put all his heart in his creation,
every skills which've been ever known to mankind, and..
yet only to smash it again.
I am the actor who dies convincing his audience he is dead!
I am the Salvador Dali’s most grandiose car, created only to be buried
unseen, unappreciated in its magnificent prime.
I am the Sisyphus
blessed to swap his Mundane punishment with the eternal death of being god.
I am the actor who dies
everyday, every hour, minute
every second convincing his audience
he is dead!
Could You Cuddle Me??
Could you for a while cuddle this little bug,
this hug- less kitten in the cold
this mess in distress?
Could you hug who he is this lost,
nude like a woman in her morning dress
all dressed and wrapped in her faithfulness?
Could you hold this palpitating heart
this flame falling apart
this faint worm of warmth
tending to disappear
crawling and melting in its flares,
from the candle of these eyes
thawing away
tear by tear?
Could you let me feel your warmth?
Could you harbor me in your arms?
Could you shield me from the kerf of these harms,
regardless of who and where
I would be
in the bottommost of this bottomless sea,
over the reflection on my jasmine tea?
Could you wake me up
in the compass of this coffee cup
from Kafka 's nightmares of estrangement?
Could you tell me that I haven't mutated
to a bug unplugged from your hug
crowing on the doomed dome of my room? (1)
Could you tell me that I
metamorphosed instead,
to a glorious insect
and transmuted
to a beautiful butterfly,
in the Dorian Gray's black eye
that apes
it's face
of hideousness in its place?
Could you tell them
that even I am the ugly duckling
the hideousness and disgrace,
is not mine, _for I am a swan_
is their own face
that in their head
projects conversely
instead?
====
(1)
It is about "The Metamorphosis" by Franz Kafka. The major character wakes up and notices that he, over the night, has transformed into a giant, unsightly, hairy bug: The ultimate depiction of alienation. no author of a poet would ever be able to find a better angle in describing alienation as the doom of the industrial world. Kafka seems here, has found the ultimate angle.
Contagious Maladies
Poetry is the might
to individuate the most latent blooms
drowned in such a camouflaged beauty,
nameless,
lonely!
Though after,
the poet, himself would turn
to the loneliest bloom in this world
like the very flower
he-she has
recognised.
We are the only subject
of our recognitions!
True fair, thus solitude
are mean,
contagious
maladies.
Butterflies of Poetry
Butterflies of poetry
forever flutter in their reflections
trapped
in the glass jars
of these sentences.
Only in translucency
silhouettes
in their duets,
light the chandelier
of their beauty.
lighting like when sun
looks at itself
in the windows of this town
back and forth,
like when a deer dares
to looks at himself
in real,
from
inside of the pond,
like some strange melancholy
nesting in the sunflowers
of these sunset windows,
inside out.
Apathetic Nights (P&Q)
What a hug-less night!
what infectious cruelty!
The world constantly solaces and deepens your sorrows,
the night is desperately looking for kindness,
touching every brick of cruelty
to bring its wall down.
ravishing all the bends and bows of beauty
solacing its sorrows!
Is there a soul
who can really smile without treason
over the masticated trenches of this disguise?!
Are there any arms
ever
to reach out?!
What a void of space
in midways of human hearts!
What a vigorous gloom
ranging along!
What a glorious glowing
is growing from this ugliness!
What an aurora is
efflorescing
out of my chest!
such a sublimation of real meaning
is effervescing out of this
formless verses
What a living poetry
I can bring to life
out of these dead statutes,
what blooms
out of these stenches.
But remember I shall survive
in goodness
not
in your memory
of me!
Comme je t'aime
I love you for all the women I have not known"
(Je t’aime), Paul Elward
I read your verses for all the verses I have never read.
I feel your presence
for all the presences I have never sensed,
out there.
I see the faultlessness
in all the blemish shapes,
infinite love
in the finite man.
I see you in everything
I've ever seen
I've ever been.
I love you forever
in all the inadequacy of time,
You've been always with me
beyond all the walls and fences of space.
in all the branches
that palpitates the same love
the same rose,
flutters
the same dove,
for all the men
for the breed of mankind
the cavaliers
of the aurora's paths.
I see poetry
in its brute imperfect nature,
in the castle of sublime dreams,
built in the imperfect world,
by the bricks of imperfect words.
I see
the fire you stole for mankind,
a Prometheus
in the chain of tongue,
link by link
word by word:
God
that only remembers himself
in poetry.
Things About "Now"
Stretching our branches
to the prospect horizons
spreads our roots
in the previous roads.
We go forth backward, in the train's
back windows.
Reciprocal life is:
Everything moves
orbits,
everything orbicular
moves.
Only in this very moment
the circles
are thoroughgoing.
Now
is absolute
for it's always and also never
there.
The Ultimate Headsman ll
Death is like a crack on the windshield of my car
I can see that crack's dissemination
on the mirrors
like spider web of fracture
or blight
eating my flesh
wrinkling my face.
I can see the web
on my eyeballs
scattering like branches,
like a blight deep deep rooted in my sight
Death is laying eggs in everything
the more I go toward the death
the deeper my root in life becomes.
My wisdom flourishes while my beauty perishes,
my brightness while my glow.
Life is the ultimate headsman
The Bird
Diminishing in transcendence,
perpetuating in deficiencies!
You are like the fire in my heart
where
I am neither a man
nor a woman,
where the wound of gender are healed,
where
I am not able to be anything
but you,
where things are formless,
where we cannot be nothing without one another,
where
we cannot be anything but one another:
a bird that is always there
but, also
never there,
because
it flies.
Behind the Gates
I was really burning for your caressing hands
until I learned you were just a semblance I was missing
and
nobody truly existed
behind those hands.
or they existed like fungus
with no roots
neither in your finger
nor in my bones.
with bubbles
coming out of their mouth.
silently
but visibly.
We were living nowhere except
on the apparent world of skins
with no transparency of bones.
there was no flesh behind the skin.
and no soul behind the masks
and no one
behind the doors of your lips.
Ceaseless Seasons
1
Tomorrow
is the first day of autumn
and a leaf
revealed to me today:
how heavy the seasons are
on my shoulders
they reminded of the gravity
of all these days I leave behind.
2
Now in front of me,
a thrown summer
a torn Fall
and I still bear the burden of dragging myself.
3
Tomorrow the winter will begin
and the spring
will die in the sum of this year,
as if I always am sliding on snow
inflating like a snowball:
do I take the vastness of my whiteness to spring?
are the seasons drowning inside me,
or it is me,
who is seeping into them
like lonely drops upon the parched lips of tomorrows,
enchained by all the seasons I’ve ever lived,
along the sound
of the restless ticking-ticking grave digging
shovels of my heartbeat ?
In the wealth of all these seasons
is there a day that I could,, may behold
through the endless chains
that I have been weaving?
And from the height of all burdens on my chest,
could I ever find a glimpse
to the rush of all the seasons
caring the procession of my life?
4
I know this winter shall also droop, wither
in the spring in which it has imbued;
the way the summer
amasses autumn
or my mother awaited my wine
and I am looking to my grail
upon the amber resin of the horizon
fossilizing my omnitude.
Redemption
All these roads are as the print of lashes
on his body
where the space has been spawned,
along the corporeality of the cross on his shoulder,
while drawing space between here and there,
now and then,
yet and after;
sketching the four-dimensional world
blueprinting the creation
in the mind of Michael Angelo
on the Sistine Chapel ceiling.
~~
I am the humble man of your virtue
I am the fire from within
I am you
waiting for you to find me
to touch my silken marble
instead of furrowed skin.
I am ascending while I am drowning.
I am a prince while a beggar
I am the loneliness itself
that convene every togetherness.
I am fortitude of destination
along the longitudes of all these roads.
I am a stature who's getting buffed
in the assaults of these pavements,
on the sole of your shoes,
the word that’s getting burnished by the onslaughts of advents.
I am the soul of mirrors getting polished
in the sand storm of time.
I am the body of everlasting redemption
still clutching at its very intent of malleability,
its being sand rather than being rock,
being liquid, than being hulking solid
being vapour rather than being fluid
being ethereal
rather than being vapour.
Glacial Hearts
One day
the flood of whatever we leave
untold
would run and wash away
all the said words in this world.
One day
everything that we clutch in our heart and hold,
all the feeling, withdrawn and withhold,
-that in the labyrinth of untruthfulness
turned tenfold,-
all the feelings inarticulate,
all the sorrows neither early
nor ever have gone old,
all the surging sentiments scold,
all the searing screams unfold,
all the seeping sobs hold unrolled,
all the fortitudes
remained oscillating
in the labyrinth of these bazaars
unsold,
all the revulsions corked in the naval
and controlled,
all the lavas hardened on the surface
but in hearts
have never gone cold,
would burst out like a volcano
and rill like the insurgent
of gold
and will smelt
the glacial heart
of this world.
The Poet’s Due
Nom
To explore the possibilities of words
is not the poet’s due.
Even voyaging in the world of meanings
is just a share of their dues.
The poet’s due however
is exploring
in the worlds of imagination
and heart!
To be in touch with heaven
in the famine of fair and virtues,
to be aqueous
in the world of objects,
to excavate through the words to
oxygen,
through rocks to
the light!
While
the deities of science
draw their mathematical portions
of aesthetically applauded formats
to sketch the exact blueprint of beauty
Poets are ones
who find beauty in imperfect,
wholeness in ruptured.
Ones who blow the breath of life,
draw the shade of soul,
the colours of life
the dye of death
and inoculate the rainbows
to blindness,
and dance
to the carcasses of
toneless substance.
Frivolous Horizons
Win
Pots
brewing on the burners of these corroded intersections,
pouring
in the bottomless thirst
of cheap chipped mugs,
or
in Styrofoam cups
in the trails of the frivolous horizon
printed on them,
bitter and bittersweet
brewing awakeness
in a fancied jar of sunshine
hinged between the warmth and the wakefulness
And the eyes,
spoons of sugar
dissolving in unsavoury smiles
drained
in insatiable funnels of brief fulfilments.
Brief moments of sweetness
in incessant oceans of bitterness,
and fatigued limbs
cramped in the endless spasms of traffic
that turn airy
in the green lights
and roasted
on the grills of
red lights.
The Magic of a Gift
GR
Their gifting spirits
live on in their absence
when I return their favour
by gifting others.
he gift is there,
already given,
we are only
the carriers.
Pouring In and Out of One-another
Nom
Waltzing
we poured
in and out of one-another.
The Waltz
was the allocation of disintegrating
from solid,
to fluid motions,
from fluid motions
to ethereal emotions,
from apathy to passion,
from woman to a goddess,
from a lonely man
to a genderless
human,
to
breakthrough every resistance of the flash,
when the soul brims over the figures.
physic
that defies gravity!
Goodbye to Sobriety
This is the time
to say goodbye to sobriety
to tie our stars
to these hollow chalices
turning inside out.
to say hello
to the bruise of this swollen intemperance,
the bottomless barrel
of these succulent grapes!
We need to ferment in darkness
like wine
because we are intoxicated by light!
We need to live
because we've lit the candles of time.
We die of intoxication
because flames
devour candles.
Aftertaste
Darkness never takes completely over
even after the light is
all gone;
zero
is the conclusion of all angles,
night, the conclusion of daylight,
as in dream
all the solid world
concludes.
Just in your breath
oxygen sparkles in my lungs, on my skin
like piano keys in the ears,
And the night trickles out
when the crescent pours
through the musical notes
written
between the lines of
your lascivious lips.
I Screamed Her Name
In the middle of the night, I screamed her name.
In the middle of the nightmare
of daylight
I screamed her name.
In the icy eyes of
the headsmen of my smile efflorescence
I screamed her name.
I screamed her name
like the last word of a convict
like the
Hemlock of fire.
Facing off
the gun barrels
of the executioners of heart
I screamed her name.
In the space between my lonesomeness and my window
opened to the alleys of an abysmal lost
I screamed her name.
In the grey eyes of the withered skies,
like a sagging sunflower in gloaming dusk
I screamed her name.
Only in your eyes, she answered!
Only in your tears, I found her
when
she was
gone!
Burn Marks
She was crying
like I could never stop her.
These burn marks
would attest to my love.
They are my words
the desires of trees to ignite
by the sun, or by the fire.
They are the allusion of passion,
sparkles of the flames,
the words
in which the fire serenades
beneath
woods.
She was crying,
tears
are when water and fire
brew.
Bowing Boughs
Like a bird encaged
In the pattern of curtains
Have never yawned to open,
Like a strawberry shrub
Has never fruited
In the mouth of a
Satisfaction,
Like the grapes
Have never jingled
In the winding longings
Of unfolding vines,
Like a fragrance
Has never bloomed
In the vase of his beloved's blossom,
Like the train of an unending instant
Behind the eyelid of
A perpetual pilgrimage,
Like the morning dew
On an unopened eyelash
Of bowing boughs
Ladened
On the apples of
Your eyes.
Springs in our Blooms
Do you remember that you were braiding my hair
and I was breathing
the breath of your hair’s fragrance
braiding my oxygen, my air?
Do you remember
everything between us and the world
was wholeheartedly shared,
just as in the stalk of a butterfly,
where divergences
are paired?
Wherein that togetherness
only beauties and splendour were
aired?
Where the bleeding grandstands of garden
between the blushes of
apple blossoms and Judas trees
were furled and
breathtakingly bared?
Where springs in our blooming
were wholeheartedly declared?
When this world still was fair,
like the love affair of childhood and
her teddy-bear,
silken like a touch of purple dream
softly on the pillow
with two angel wings evenly flared
and compared?
Where moments were floating on time
like a flame on a candle,
like candles,
not suffocating in the past sandals of scandals,
not like sands in the sand machine
of mirror globes, snared?
Where the world was
as spacious as how far in our spirits we dared,
yet on the space between two
which only loneliness could ever forswear?
Do you remember
where we were Michael Angelo
of our Sistine chapel ceilings
upon the devotion vault of our own tender feelings,
where unsculpted sculptures
like in the raw marbles,
could only shelter there?
like the sand machine,
like a rocking fantasy on a fancy rocking chair,
through the flare of our valours and cares
were as much hidden in stones
as they were exposed
like your hair to the open air?
Do you remember?
Just Tell Me ..
Tell me why flowers
do not last.
Tell me why butterflies carve
the farewells of their splendours
on the tombstones of empyrean wings,
why
they draw their colours
from the floriferous crayon boxes
of childhoods,
and why hummingbirds
dip their beaks
in the aqueous watercolours
of the tunes
my mother whispered.
Tell me why the peduncles of sentiments
shoot out and bloom
only on our sorrows' sediments.
Tell me why the world is more riveting
in our pasts.
Tell me
if there is a place
that all the butterflies migrate.
Tell me that the world
is not bleeding out beauty.
Tell me
there is another world
made from the pixels' flocks
of all those migrant splendours;
tell me I am, my heart, is
made from the pixels' flocks
of all those
migrant splendours.
Tell me why everything fetching and fair,
is fleeting
Tell me why the remain
the residues,
are only
the cold and hard rocks.
<
strong>Resonance
When you stroke the harps of these feelings
you do not know your fingers
will dissolve in the threads
of all echoes swirling to spread.
When you dig in to the guitar of my senses
you do not know
these scratches
will settle
through all the pages of hearts and flowers
to be read.
When you stab silence,
in the chest of papers,
you do not know
the tip of your words
will crack open
the red ink of the lesion
that your penknife
would mercilessly shed.
You tune your gashing cords
to the tone of your sorrows
and do not know
on the tongue of this song
you would wave
in to the millions of hearts
that will rise from dead.
Blanks
would burst with colours as much
-in the asylum of your fancies,
in the effusion of a minuscule smutch, -
as one peck
would weave a thousands waves
on waters.
And one wave
will write
on the surface of this pond
and such:
this butterfly would cease,
even in the gravity,
of a tender kiss
of
touch!
The Pebbles
O honesty
the all mighty God:
please bless me to be able to see
and recognise all my frauds,
shed light upon
my well-hidden flaws,
give me a chance to change for real
instead of
hiding my vengeful claws,
please shed light in where I am not yet with you
show me where I can be authentic and true,
please help me
to win my fights,
verses my mute mistakes,
in my deceptions
where I am unauthentic and fake,
help me be a heart
full of my brethren’s sorrows
and aches.
O please let me be a pond
which with rainbow of your heart is spawned,
with my transparent deeds
that appear
like the pebbles on its ground
as prayer-beads,
through the deep glares of irradiance's spears,
found
more bold, getatable and near,
more heightened and sheer
and crystal
clear.
Farewell
I surrendered all my memories,
the fallen leaves of my life,
like my father's ashes,
to the wind,
until they faded into thin air,
upon the rainbow
across an abyss
curbing death and life.
Now
the only memory
the only residue
is you:
the world with no reminiscence
a world of transparency
after
all the dusts
have settled.
Now
I can see
my true
father.
Vagabond Splendour
Oh, the tiniest flower!
lost in the vastness,
hidden in your earthly little stature,
like a child in the alleyway of his wonder,
in the streets of his motley appetence,
drowned yonder in the pool
of his pellucid dreams,
in the crystal chandelier of his heart,
vagabond
in the mazes of these fields.
Oh, the tiniest little thing!
If the whole world have forgotten you
or have not yet remembered you,
if the whole world are taken away from you,
beauty but
would always remember you,
my little childhood heart
would always
celebrate you,
in me;
your reminiscence would always
sail in the wind!
free like birds
waving, pollinating or perishing,
hovering like hummingbirds
over scarce awing eyes,
lost,
in the vine reeds of your allure,
in the endless torsion of everything
simple
and authentic.
Absolute Me
ou have to burn in order to shine"
_ this was a burning moth susurrating
"That is why my stomach burns
when I drink vodka"
_ it was me susurrating
"But you promised me to quit"
_ this was she, within me, susurrating
" I shall quite on burning
when I am all shine,
the day
the only thing left of me
is you"
_ it was the burning moth, in me, susurrating
**
from those days I use to drink a lot of Vodka Absolute"
Hyaloid Nights
Did you know
that the whole world,
is the odeum
of your splendour?
Did you know that all these effusing gardens,
these inflating balloons of double rainbows,
these vineyards of fragrances, and grapes of flavours
all these infusing orchards of sunshine
these lush groves of colour and allure,
one by one,
are the pedicels
of different elongation
of your longing grace?
did you know that the whole world
is the playhouse
of every drama that is ever written
or left un written
of you?
that colours do not exist
until you see them,
that beauty
is how you look at yourself in others,
and time,
is how you give life to everything
you look at?
Did you know
the moment you cease to look at me,
waters would forgo to stream,
falls would stop to pour,
moon would shun
to gush hyaloid nights,
hearts would forbear deliquescing to our lips,
time would turn to frostbite
and watches would withhold
to tick,
for they are
all openheartedly tied
to
these
heartbeats?
In the Barber Shop
The respite is shortening
like my hair in the barber shop
with the scissors of withered seasons!
I am repeating in every side
decreasing in these mirrors
like a ceaseless corona's circumference.
On my table a broken vase
is counting the fades of flowers,
petal by petal,
and there is a book
with its pages like my days,
blank, with the parallel lines
to hang
the laundries of my wounds!
I open my windows
to the reiterative walls of these mirrors:
to an old woman
who has blighted on the desiccated stem
of her window,
to a street
of all my lost opportunities to continue,
to a chilled running after unsettling butterfly,
and to an unleashed kite
of the boy
of my childhood!
To an abandoned concrete foundation of a building
under the razors of sun,
in which my dream rises day by day
in the rays of the scorching field
like an oasis of a mirage
and an insatiable recurrence of a bite
from a fruit
that evaporates in the thistle teeth
of this thirst!
Carnival Blue
How could sculptures ever divulge
from the wild wavering bulge
of crude unruly rivers,
the silken trill
of there silver strands of streams,
the
serene beams
of their brimful dreams?
How could chiselers ever view
the divinity of Venuses in their veins
breaking through
or
how could the sublime ever
construe
the tame of its magic
through
the raw clay of a
mutinous shrew?
How could flowers ever imbue
the canvas of gardens
in each and every angle and hue
from the magic box
of this carnival blue,
its oneness,
from splitting to two?
How would sculptors ever mount your breast
and redeem
the acclivity of their dreams
from the down dale
of these streams,
How would they ever appease
the silken crust of marble,
within their jagged texture of garble,
the bright fire fibers of their souls
from the piles
of deep black
coals,
their parities,
in parting from the soul of their arts,
their arts
from their ventures in terrain of their hearts?
How could they ever arose
such majestic pose
from the barbwires of thorns
in the body of
a bleeding rose?
How could my chisel ever reveal the scripts
of your curvaceous curvatures and hips
eclipsed by the ruggedness of these rocks?
How could I ever portray the grips of your ample apple
of kissing lips
in unknown woman of a lunar eclipse
in a vanity mirror rounded
yawning into an ellipse?
How could I ever bare her chest
from the tone
of her effeminate zest,
or
from the coil of my moan?
How could I ever bare
the marble of marvel in her breast,
from the jail vial of brutish stones?
On its own
like God
who created the world
all alone
from the reminiscence of your kiss,
aroused from the white nectar of your teeth,
the moon,
dormant
in the cradle of an abyss,
in the wetness bliss,
from reminisce of a pair of hissing lips!
How did HE ever beget
all the seas,
HE, who in adulation of the creation of his own
came down to his knees,
from your mouth rosette,
warm and wet,
where the rain and sun duet?
How did HE ever assume distance
through the hollow wander,
yonder
under the sunshade of wonder
in the deep blue
of not kissing you?
How could I ever free my soul from this incessant crassitude?
How could I ever mine you from these depressant lassitude?
How could I ever uncurtain and rescue my sky all in blue
and find my clue in the Venues of such nostalgia
of intoning and chanting
of you?
Roadening
The crucifixion of these geometrical shapes
in the air.
These triangles are stretching
in excruciating pains
to square,
broadening any dark feeling
to a heartfelt flare.
every wing to pair
Every unfair
to fair.
Windchill
Windchill is howling in my veins,
as on the windows of these trains.
It seems nothing would ever warm these tubes
huddled with frozen eye cubes.
It seems nothing could ever melt and mold
to a drop of rain.
These icicles would never shed tears.
Souls are trapped
between these glowers of iron spears,
between these jagged jaws of fears.
These trains oscillating
between stations
between there and here
breathing like an accordion,
according the distance of far
an near.
These trains are up to nowhere.
There are no up and down in the stares
within the grips of these snares.
Inchmeal the feeling
grows in you stronger and stronger
that the promise land, either has never been
or isn't there any longer,
that this vacuum of whirling voids
like winds groan and moan
in these tunnels
with such grinding tone
like we are just pendulums of our own
some crucified flesh
on the cross of our bones.
These tickets are feigned;
there are no end
have been ever attained,
no real destination
has ever been gained.
These trains are only to keep us going.
Nothing ever is as it is showing.
and no grains of hope in this barren field
ever would be glowing.
These tracks are parallel to each other
as to the destination shown.
Here, there are no maps
but the fresh paint of pains
in the blueprint of our bones.
These wafts are to nowhere blown
we're here
suffering together,
all alone.
To the Whispers of Zephyrs
There is someone out there
who reads all my poems
and
she is every audience I need.
From her eyes
all the epigrams of my soul
are phonated.
Her eyes quietly alchemise my words
to the encirclements of pure gold.
It is for her that every veil of my soul opens in words,
like the flower on the shoots
of stimulating hands!
She is riveted by my words,
as I am spellbound by her brown flames
in the fireplace of coppices imagination,
raining fireworks on my feeling,
flooding my chalice
with copper and molten dawns,
wordlessly pouring my mould with silence
It is in the poise of her breast
that the syllables of my rhyme
are scaled.
I hang my wounds
On the silent spaces between the lines of her chest,
the sky
between the laundry ropes!
She adores them not because they are good
but because there are mine,
not because they are mine,
because they are the common denominator
of every heartbeat,
the flag of spectrums
in the stem of forlorn forgotten blooms!
lost in the wilderness of this world,
hidden amongst common weeds.
She namelessly, like a dazzling fish,
in her scales and spangles,
allures and whirls in the aquarium of my sweat and blood,
amongst the ornamental castles and shells of my verses.
She anticipates all my verbs,
for they are common senses
for they are coils combed by the fingers of her caresses,
harshness, burnished,
by the sandstone of her care!
She declares each word
like the petal
She surrenders them
to the whispers of zephyrs.
Eve's Apple
Actually
it was in the apple of your eyes
that Newton saw
the delineation of universe
and how
a bite
gravitated Adam
to a fallen
fruit.
Pirouette On Your Toes
Life is a case of watercolour,
caterpillars relinquishing being crawlers,
a set of musical keyboard,
words and colours
in accord
within a musical chord.
Unroll their reefs,
soak them in your heart,
sail them
on your leaves,
wing them in your art.
Let them dash, let them oar
let them splash, let them soar,
Let them paint your prairies,
blossom your
Bird-cherries.
Let them to yell out
the dehiscence
of your thoughts
let them shout,
let their oomph
to sprout,
let them boom
in your room
on the conscience
of flowerpot.
Let them be the fanfare of your dreams.
let them scream
trolling
on carousel of your beams,
summon them in the gush,
of your gold rush
on the summit
of your paintbrush.
Let them sow, let them rain, let them bow,
let them row, let them flow,
brush the moon in their romance,
let them glow
and
let them dance.
Watch them pirouette
on your toes
like a feather
when it blows.
he Slit Of Illumination
Crescent is your laughter
the slit of illumination.
Paradise pouring out
nectars
cracking open
from within,
and silver
gushing the drought of darkness,
and rivers
glossing the night
patching them
with the needles of
transparency.
Bleeding
Tell me that there is a reason for me being alive,
that there is a final meaning
in this reiterated thruway
we drive,
a destination
we shall one day arrive.
Tell me there is a furnace,
at the end
of these never ending hoary roads
of icy eyes,
these blues,
denying my longings
the oxygen
of clear skies.
Tell me at least
there is an efficacy of reason
in these chaoses of cause.
Tell me that there is an oases of pause
in being trampled
under these callous drove of paws,
a soar of glory
in the jagged scales of
these uneven rang of abstruse laws,
attuned
not by the scales of just
but by the even fangs
of these atrocious hyenas’ jaws.
Tell me that
there is candor,
a poise of fairness,
in the scales of these horrid claws
anchored
through these lesions'
hawse.
Without Ever Saying Goodbye
like waves
on the faraway shores of soft sands,
Between us, the mirages dry out
and thirst
is the most wholesome spring
Nothing repeats between us,
like the rivers
we
always depart
yet we're always
there.
Hidden
Oh, how fragile are the soundless beauties,
Blemish brambles,
Jilted,
Pure wine
In the jagged jugs.
Oh, what a sin is
The transparency
Wherein
Every unsightliness
Is
Avowed.
Chilean Miners
2010 Chile's mining accident
It is a transcending triumph
when all the human race unites
in the tender heart, in beneficence,
caring for the lives of those
who live far distances away, in an uncharted land.
impoverished,
unnamed, underneath and undermined,
grimed, so, invisible in the heartless dark
but
with the hearts of lion!
Men harder than the rock they mine in.
the lavas of Chile’s volcanos in their veins,
molten steel
cools down in their casts
of forbearance.
Men with the fortitude of their very assailant:
the earth!
Men
who tame mountains,
who bridle impossible feats and pains!
And now
in their wills of survival
the humanity
unites.
Black Butterfly
A black butterfly
sprinkling the dust of its flutter
on my eyes
skywrites in my heart:
every butterfly
is mourning for you.
A drop of ink connotes
so deep in my pen:
all the words in the world
all the sentences unwritten,
are mourning for you.
A moment of silence
whispers to my ears:
every sound, soundlessly
every song, unsung
in the world
is mourning for you.
A drop of paint
a dropping dew,
a falling petal,
an autumnal leaf,
floating under my window,
serenades to my muse:
all the colours in the world,
all the blooms
in water-colours' springs,
all the rainbows in crayon boxes,
all the lacerating roses,
all the ambrosial
bowing branches of gardens,
are mourning for you.
A night breeze, a tender breeze
susurrates in the ear of my senses:
all the distances
with their necks bridled in horizons,
are mourning for you.
A bead of musical note
in my ear,
on the staffs of instruments,
dressing all in black,
sighs through the cords:
all the lamenting violins
all the piano keys , flapping in penumbras,
all the groaning guitars,
are mourning for you.
A drop of tear shines in my eyes:
all the bleak hearts,
all the broken ones,
all the weeping eyes,
all the ardent appetences,
are mourning for you.
You my morning, my eternal mourning,
you the endless silence
in my words,
my eternal free verse,
you the endless sky
eternal whiteness
of my canvas,
and endless iridescence of butterflies,
and now
the endless surge
of ink
in this pen!
__________________
Note:
It was at my father's funeral that I saw a black butterfly and said to my sister: " Even butterflies are mourning for dad." Then the rest came after.
Gadfly
this was
how
a bug sang
with his body full of fuzz.
Buzz,
I am a happy bug
whether being free
or being caught,
whether you smash me
or you do not,
whether keep on humming
or I pause,
whether on the window
swathed with the thunder
or
on the curtain
before drawn asunder.
Buzz
I am so happy because
my happiness is free
from
what everyone else
does.
Buzz.
Old Dusted Piano
It was only for a few moments
but they were infinite
when I heard Beethoven
from a car's window
breaching traffic jam like a
musical interlude.
I was an archaeologist
who diligently dust off a small object
to recover a forgotten civilization.
A flashback that could not deafen itself to the function
of its ultimate purpose,
when my father took my sister to Beethoven store,
both forgetting if even I existed,
but I did
and the music in me germinated.
Like history
in an insignificant object,
I found it in my thirst
like rain in a succulent drop,
like a magician that
in the lure of his fingers
brings back to life
an old dusted piano.
The Reason
Sky said to a tree:
How could I invite a protrusion like this,
so coiled, misfit, uneven
and so bent
in the wind?
The earth said:
because
I am
from you!
The Dying Bed
All in silver and grey
in the dying bed:
Sometime the cavalier of a flying horse,
sometimes sliding on the clouds, upon his aspirations sleigh,
and to the angels of firmament
throwing the bouquets
of his glorious days,
Sometime staring at his blighted mirror
beholding through the panorama
of a living
falling into
decay.
Alas
a listless stream
that still repeats its once broad runway,
a stream,
that at its last throbs
sinking
in to clay!
Alas
a book threadbare,
filled with words of wisdom and just,
on its cover eroding away turning to crusts
breaking to rust,
but from within
the words combust and glow
brimming of stardust!
Alas
the vestige of
sewing machine of pain
on the fabric of time,
the paradox of survival and to spurn
to soaking in slime!
holding to your whiteness,
in the grey world of pollution and grime,
being true to yourself
while putting the mask of mimicry and mime,
in the world that being authentic is pure madness and crime!
Alas
holding on unrolling,
the scroll of an ideal paradigm,
that inclines to roll back scrolling,
on a dime!
Alas the poetical sway at the doorway,
of to be, to dry like a butterfly
on the pin of a spotlight display,
or not to be,
to burn and fade away
in the brilliant rays
of the soul
of effulgent days,
or encircling like the water,
in a river
that in all its going
ditches its runway to stay!
Alas
a relentless decrease,
from dusk to dawn,
to perish away
and to, on tombstone of life
engraving
your say!
Winter Bees
There are the freeze bees
Teasing me to sneeze.
Snow is pulling me down
to my knees.
Though no matter how ferocious the winter is,
having an arm no one sees,
you cannot fight it
even with weapons of war
or the club of Hercules.
It is sightless spheres
coming at you like knife at cheese
aim to mutilate but only
pinch, poke and tease.
The needle cold breeze,
chaperoned by a
breathless wheeze,
constantly poking at your ease!
You can cover your body as you please,
yet feels like
chill
lays into
all your facial hair
to tweeze.
In that Café
In that café, I penned my poems
pinned a living butterfly of my heart
each rhyme was a matching pair of an adoring dot
on my wings.
each feeling was a hummingbird
sitting on the rim of my cups
seeping into my soul,
sipping on my saps of insight,
urging to make sense
of my senseless sorrows to no end.
This loud little loquacious effusive bees,
the mouthful of little bites of sweetness
burning and cooling,
healing and thawing the bitter bruises
of the tastelessness,
that still furrowing through me to my bones.
this bittersweet gulps, opening the jar's bows of
honey and honesty,
pendulating between pandemonium and poetry,
turning coffee
to ink
turning lost words
to the treasure maps of meanings.
In that café, art was exuded
in every sip
like a waltz of pain and euphoric objects of music
ethereal,
like vines red grapes in your veins
like a rainbow of colures in your grains
liquefying your woes
sedimenting your sentiments
in the hanging chandeliers
of light
right there
in that unknown dark café
that the real art was pirouetting
in the box of silence
without the limelight.
Gender's Incarceration
Being a gender is too tight
a dungeon
it is like being fastened
to the opposite propensity of
a serrated knife.
I do not consign my soul
to the confine of any incarceration.
Even the sky is a trap
chaining me to my wings.
I am not a captive
I am not a bondservant of any format
I am an alien
I am an inhabitant of the planet
named emancipation:
Like fruits, I ripe
and rip out of the carcass of my forms.
Like art
I am uncontainable in time,
like eternality
I tear
this intertwined textile of ticks and tacks,
to crack open
any cocoon that host
my butterfly
of within.
The Violin of the River
Your smile,
the white queue of musical tone,
the jaws of piano,
the bitten apple of the moon,
and the appetite
of silence!
The bow of the wind
the violin of the river!
The teethed moon,
the hammock of crescent
between two
twilight poles!
The drunken dark river,
the savour of the apple
on the tongue of the night
the nectar of the music!
The white throne of jasmines
and the dark locks of the night,
the fragrance of whiteness
hovering above
and wavering on
the riverbed
of your pitch-black hair!
Between our Lips
Nom
There is a desert between our lips
that could not be watered
by all the springs and rains
but only
by a wet kiss.
The dew
that turns
all the tumbleweeds
green,
all the lizards
to nightingales,
all the withered thorns
to rose stems,
all the boulders
to choristers,
all the exclamations to serenades,
all the hurts to desires
and all the
indurated bitterness
to sugarplum,
a wave
that turns all the craggy capes
to melting sugarloafs.