on the wind

// on the wind // I heard your name // on the grass // a long time ago // had to be a thousand years, at least // in the night // the thought-memory of you // like a seed // like a tree // in the soil under the fingernails // your name was there too // for such a long time // the sky too overcast to notice // cacophonies of feelings and yellings // no longer drowned therein // only whispers // this unsilence for such a long time // though not the right time // the hawk ascending on the wind // on man-made moonlit mythical wings // finding time slowing down in the shade // wanting to be near // holding hands // with all those years of gestures, silences, thoughts, questions and learnings // gowpens of tragedies, love, carry-ons and acquired smiles // that was the right time // on the cairn I made on the knoll // meant the wait had been the rainbow // how I learnt to make everything I do and say // a long time ago you had been there and stayed // carefully telling everything your name to be remembered // and found // to never end // on the tip of the ear and tongue always // there // gut-feeling me through the ground // never quite lost // like a bonding of molecules with no definite centre // here but also there // now but also then // the most negligible of forces // like the faintest of rustles // on the wind //

Homemory

 

I’ll mark you in my book of memories

between sunfires at dawn and dusk

and meteor waves jolting the spheres

the memory of you will be a home to me

as the sunshafts after the rain are home to me

as the goosebumps from music are home to me

as feeling the last page of a book is home to me

you will be a home to me

in my book of memories

though the shades have darkened 

and the pages will have faded

as the storm of the century raged

home to me, home to me

Circumstances

 
Where have you been? Missed you so.
You haven’t changed, I’ve moved on.

Both are scary, what’s come over us?
Perhaps because no one’s letting go.

All them big words and no brawn,
but we’ve never been ones to fuss.

Had nothing to do, so I moved mountains
and a third of the sky off my way:

never be a hostage from geography –
always prefer wild seas to fountains.

Twenty-one grams lighter we weigh
now on our sure sway to apathy

had nothing to do so you froze right there
deer-in-the-headlights of a human being

tried with all your might to stay real
blinded and scorched by the glare

– no cure for that sort of pain –
– you don’t have it in you, sweet girl –
– no cure needed as you’ll do it again –
– chaos in immobility you are –

looking for something which stopped becoming
when you silenced your symmetry

bending space on opposite sides
won’t make it come full circle
we couldn’t even if we tried

or we might have and

we might be, different

 

Scattering of flower

 
Strewn about the vase
the petals a vestige
of a gone beauty
randomly, perhaps

Gathering the withered
soft and dead dryness
the mind but wanders
in the palm of the hand

Left alone in the field or
left to wane in the house
plucked or unplucked
the flower’s sum and parts
ordered by a deeper chirality
disperse long before they were a seed
arrange long after the end of time
yet mathematically arranged
yet unordered, perhaps

By plucking its petals
one both gathers and disperses
the beauty of the flower
contained elsewhere
randomly, perhaps

 

Handshook

 

All it took was a handshake

to unsettle the masculined gaze

All it took was a kind look

– the warmth of a handshake –

for him to avert his teary eyes

All it took was a “Hello, Jack”

– the second-too-long handshake –

to expose the chink in the armour

to make him chin-on-chest humble

All it took was the simple kindness

– a handshake like an embrace –

of one who fought unseen battles

recognising one fighting another

telling them without stoic prattle:

“Feel no shame, and be brave, brother.”

In between dreams

Sometimes it’s hard for me

to fit in this world

sometimes I feel that I

could stop a rushing train

right there in its tracks

seconds before speeding off a cliff

absorbing its full momentum

saving hundreds at a time

that my roar could cause an avalanche 

which in one embrace I would stop

that I would devise an equation

quantising particles

manifolding them

thereby unlimiting food and fuel

that I could fly out in space

grab and chew a whole black hole

and spit out a new universe

in my mind’s eye I can

and have done all these things

of course in the real world I couldn’t

but my daydreams and nightdreams

are full of daily scenarios

because I am weak-bodied

and strong-willed

and because I know

what it takes to love

what it takes to be unloved

to seek refuge in dreams

when everything else

falls apart

for my inner world is larger

than the entire universe

Corps mourant

 
watching the cormorant
alert, scan the river
plucking torn feathers off –
bitter taste in the mouth
of the weary, backstabbed,
morose office worker

Enough

 
Not everything was stolen, of course, but enough was robbed. Enough that I cannot love anymore. It was not just the one robbery, of course, it happened over many years. One kiss, one tryst, one relationship at a time. “I’ll take this,” they said, “who cares if it leaves a hole.” “He won’t mind,” they thought, “he has a lot of love left anyway.” “He’ll pull through,” they reasoned, “heartaches never killed anyone.”

Like this one day on a hike when I saw a procession of mountain rams circling around the dead body of a black fox. At the time obscure explanations seemed the most obvious. Now that I am the fox, I know enough.

Leave me alone so that I don’t have to harness my breath, so that I can freely cycle to and from work, simply, Monday to Friday.

Leave me alone so that I can do my work without interruptions, so that I don’t have to overthink about past and present miseries. I want to be able to enjoy my evening walks, my weekend cooking and nightly reading, alone, unperturbed – undoubtedly sad but assured that the certainty of hurt has gone, or has at least abated enough that I can move about untroubled, assured that I can pour over my books uninterrupted, with the obsession of those yearning for answers who yet doubt everything.

Leave me alone so that I can enjoy my episodic sleep, my epic and magnificent dreams and nightmares. Let me enjoy the carefully-nurtured illusion that I could ever have been and done enough.

And no, you cannot ask me to learn to love again. I am too old and tired for that balancing act. I have seen enough. You’ve robbed me of enough. My heart is like those petrified skeletons in the natural history museum: chipped, glued back together with dirt, with bits missing and instead bits of wood and rocks in the crevices, hanging by invisible threads from the ceiling, weightless, gathering dust, projecting ghostly shadows when the moon shines through the windows.

Yes, leave me alone. Now, and for good. Enough is enough.

Had you by chance any fear, may they rest comforted in the assurance I shan’t need any help, for I have gone beyond that. Leave me alone in the tundra of solitude, when the body tenses and melts when touched, eager and desperate, weary and numb.

The body will rebel, of course, but the mind is resolute.

I’ve had enough.

 

The desperate and the mad

Folk say to look for the light within

and for the light above

beacons in a world of obscurity

but when every light goes out

it’s all dark, isn’t it

all dark

and in a world of fugitives

the person lighting the candle

will appear as either

the saviour or the traitor

the brave or the fool

the desperate and the mad

no light is eternal but darkness

only darkness can remain

 

Middles

 
Someone once wrote
that all beginnings
and all endings of
the things we do
are untidy

Vast understatement
if you ask me
as all the middles
are nothing short of
chaotic

Often one thinks
– so…this is how it ends
– how can life go on
– this storm can’t be weathered
– what is the fecking point

One thinks those things
when one feels gutted out
and all one can taste is ash
life a pile of smoggy ruins
and breathing feels sticky
like molasses, lumpy
when one feels
the heaviness in the lungs
the gurgling within the chest
the very air mud, like
bubbles slowly surfacing
as if wading through silt
murdering your lungs
when one has to run
for one’s life
gasping for more air
as the sludge gargles in

This, this isn’t the beginning
this, is far from being the end
this is the middle we all know
tougher than last week’s bread
gnarlier than a knot in a plank

Middles are hurricanes
to be embraced

This, is chaos.
This, is life.
 

Silly little details

 
You said
it was the way
I looked at you
played with your fingertips
drowned in your eyes

starving your skin
you felt happiness again

your very words
butterflies in droves

stomachquake of love

yes, happiness

I held as long as I could
until you went home
and fucked your partner
for yes, of course
he took precedence
over everything
and of course
I wasn’t legitimate
in any way
and you were a butterfly
intoxicated on fields of flowers
and I happened to have one
ready to bloom

I let you pick
bunches by the armful
you smelt them to exhaustion
examined each
cupped in your hands
then lovingly
you sapped them all
one by one wilted
until the hill, sombre, faded
and you went home
content, sated by
all of those silly little details
which, somehow, mattered
but, eventually, didn’t

who knows how many fields
how many silly little details
laid to waste there

I held as long as I could
until you went to love more
someone more deserving
and let’s face it, better
with all my silly little details
folded up in two
in a fraying petal
soon forgot
inconsequential
in the grand face of
the supernova
of your other love

 

Us all

Death born as us

borne within us

every second of every minute

not even masquerading or posing

undetectable not because 

it is a part of us

but because it is us

not even waiting to be

just being

Existing

as us

innocent until darkened

innocuous until stained

until the will to live eternal

grips it at its core

wrenches the madness

inside its shell

until finally, when the time has come

a time not even it could determine

it unleashes life as its ultimate weapon

killing us with an overabundance of it

cells upon cells upon cells

feeding us the life it takes from us

feasting with a gargantuan appetite 

until monstrous, adipose, ignoble

deformed beyond belief and recognition

now a behemoth, yet celerous and cunning 

with unlimited resources and craft

infests and corrupts, multiform

unique and multiple

insatiable, unoblivious but adamant

because in fine the lifeblood

can flow eternal

life only matters

its fear of death killing it eventually

Unstoppable, suicidal

outpacing our ability to cope 

with its greed, its power

the aporia irreconcilable 

killing us eventually

for just being

a cell, a soul, us all –

It starts, and ends, with us.

Palms

 
In the concave of her hands
The water as an ocean
A gowpen of hope
Larger than galaxies
From which we both drank

In the concave of her hands
The soil orb-like
Brimming with life
Delicately deposed
Tree, plant or flower to be

In the concave of her hands
The sun as if harvested
A cornucopia of fruits
Carefully pitted and washed
The season allowed bounty

In the concave of her hands
Hollowed-out space
All but empty
I buried my face
Finally finding love, and rest.

 

The first day of spring

There is a shocking violence 

in the birds singing this morning

– this quiescent sunday morning –

perhaps they think that

after so many rainy, dirty days 

they ought to have the right to sing

for they do it so boisterously

– almost belligerent in the face of peace –

with a raw, unfettered rage

as if they cried ‘spring is here, spring is here!’

with a jagged knife to our throat

curdling both blood and coffee

like so many threats of burning the world down

they chant the behoveliness of revelling in

nature and life in drunken ecstasy 

upon pain of painful death

– enjoy or die –

– dance or die –

– fuck or die –

– and that’s final –

they don’t seem to care 

if their lungs explode in the chorus

– those scruffy savages

frothing at the beak –

or if they starve to death

– they sing, unrelenting

with every fibre of their frail bodies –

their incessant, arrogant cacophony

fomented it seems since the last equinox

isn’t a celebration, it’s an invitation to murder

to a clamorous massacre

in every hue and smell spring brings

as we all must partake in the rite

they’re past febrility, or even tension:

they’re out for bloody mayhem, these birds are

spurred on by a ferocious hunger

and ravenous lust for their

bellowing decrees the solitude of the flesh over

– step into the light and break body and heart –

as if the only way to cope with so much beauty

was to wreck and laugh and bleed and dance

yet it seems such a small price to pay

in the grand decadence sung

in the sunlit-engorged fury

of the birds’ extravagant song

for we know deep down they’re right

our hair prickling on the nape of the neck

and a jubilant sizzling in the pit of the stomach

with so many things to look forward to

– death, love, sex, comedies, tragedies –

on the first day of spring.

The hunger of the forest

Speared by the trident of the sun

on the hill overlooking Athens

the beast’s heart grows faint

 

The smell of charred bodies and wood

ancient and still as the rocks

weighs on the senses

The blood spangles

each drop mirroring

earth, sky and sea, and

the victor, legs akimbo

The hunger for the forest

equalled by the one of,

ravenous in its devouring of time ,

gorges up on the lives

lying there, standing there

never sated, it seems

The beast’s vitreous eyes

a glow of melancholy and ire 

the spectacular light in between

flickers like a moth’s wings

set afire on a torch

That very same flame which set

the hill overlooking Athens

ablaze like a thousand suns.

thirty thousand people

The day was torn and grim

birds yet began to sing

as if they knew

nothing’s eternal

and old gives way to new

that man, one day, will fall

to the nascent murmur of

thirty thousand people chanting

in the fragile dusk of the night.

There is no chosen one,

only the days, torn and grim,

and sometimes hung in the sky

a great white pearl 

that makes us cry

to the undulant tumult of 

thirty thousand people chanting

in the gloaming dark of the night. 

And lost memories

keep coming back

torn and grim

and we dare not look

and we cannot understand

and we thought

we could deal the final blow

estocadar the pain 

the unease, the numbness

perhaps drowned in the roar of

thirty thousand people chanting

in the solemn dark of the night.

But the bull in our brain

in one last flick of his horns

impales, bolts and bucks

in the navel through the mouth 

rips us apart

leaves us bleeding

blue and white 

walled in by the applause

and the deafening thunder of

thirty thousand people chanting

in the grimmer dark of the night.

 

Habits

I am a man of habits

I got to this conclusion

because I flash-realised

that I am hoping

that someone, someday

will see the patterns

the routines

nurtured for years

and wait where

we both expect

myself to be