Murphy's Laws

The sound of a gun

June comes roughly like the sound of a gun

not the one you expect at the start of a race

but one like a hair-raising thunderclap

in the sky are neither holes nor patches

but superimpositions of angry shouts

patched-up silver linings contouring a map

now allow me to make a bold statement:

solitude is cliff erosion,

it makes the head spin glancing down the gap

I'm tired of being patient:

nothingness is nothingness,

empty hands stay empty, not even a scrap

the depression you thought was gone

is back again, like the sound of a gun

which snaps you out of a Sunday nap

I'm tired of being tired, tired of helping others,

tired of knowing what to do and my hands tied

tired of unsticking myself out of this flytrap

this is the end of me as I knew myself to be

I see minutes pass like years, landsliding like morass

in pitch: need to either blast or soothe my skullcap.

 

The sum of our parts

We have always been

more than the sum of our parts

more than what we've seen

more than a diary can chart.

We have always been

more than the net of our loss

more than our chagrin

more than what we have tossed.

We are less than the product

of any form of multiplication

less than the sectioned result

of any form of division –

yet, strangely, sometimes, we do find

we're more than all of these combined.

 

Granite

L'hésitation du granite aux frémissements de juin

de consommer la fissure attiédie de beaux jours,

dont l'intrusion s'est faite à l'origine de l'origine,

complétion dont l'homme peut enfin témoigner

– comme ce coup de fusil qui prend ses aises dans la plaine,

qu'on fait d'abord mine de confondre avec la foudre –

provenant de la grange pleine de foin sombre,

au pourpre du départ des manœuvres,

le coucou ayant sonné la fin de la moisson –

on accourt pourtant, on mesure l'interstice,

et l'on voudrait soi-même empoigner la pierre

pour la finir de fendre qu'on ne le pourrait,

alors on observe, et on attend le craquement final

qui survient un soir de fin de fauchage,

alors que sur le tard un ouvrier traine.

On a d'abord cherché l'éclair du regard

puis on a plongé dans le mica de l'œil incrédule

passant par les portes de la grange ouvertes en grand –

car qui aurait cru, sa dureté à l'épreuve du temps établie,

se pouvoir trancher ainsi le coin le rondin

ou bien météoriser en grus sur l'enclume des tempêtes,

qui a construit de ces monuments qu'on passe fier et serein

aux générations qui regardent la montagne immuable

et ne peuvent déceler le laccolite de peine

parce que le grenu de la croûte

a été consciencieusement gratté

chaque matin dès le réveil.

Le bloc de granite succombant à la pression caniculaire

s'affaisse en deux en un bruit sourd, la fissure devenant surface,

forme à jamais perdue, mais parfaite pour la légende.

What Drove Us Apart

To Theresa May

Not so long ago you said, Theresa,

that it was the voices of evil and hate

which drove us apart – but no offence

we may have a different answer to that,

for the roots of this stalemate

go bone-deeper than you can sense.

It's the written plea of the homeless

whose utter misery is being silenced –

even their voice was taken away, yes.

It's the omniabsence of the wheelchaired,

for their home is an island-horst

outside of which each-and-every road

is fraught with bureaucratic caltrops.

It's the little one out-of-the-blue-asking

her mom why her dad won't be home

and her, clenching to the kitchen sink,

and her head bowed in shame,

in-vain-dispelling the visions of flames,

as she can't explain a four-year-old why

her daddy died trying to save passers-by.

It's the gut-punching pictures in the papers

of people who could have been us,

praying a God who could have been ours,

who wince at the hand raised in succour

– it being so similar to that which cursed them

which, you know, could well have been ours –

trying to regain some dignity in the slums.

It's the 'apart' that in part drives us,

the further we are the better,

for the taking-parter is a meddler:

one's better off apart on the bus.

It's those who look at death in the eye

for a scrap of information, a picture

to show the world what it chose to disregard.

It's those who look at death in the eye

to mend, heal, soothe the injured,

to show the world what to choose to guard,

those who chose which world for which to die.

It's those who buckle up against insults

the coons, tramps, dems, tards and sluts,

It's those who curl up because they stood up.

It's those who step down for having stood up.

It's those who are spurned for another,

limelighting the concept of 'brother'.

It's all these bent-backs whose voice

was choked in the clangorous quotidian

because they were left with no choice,

they needed a loud-speaker to devoice,

to paint, to word, to picture oblivion.

Even then, sometimes, it's all in vain.

It's the little hurts which slip unnoticed,

the not-so-invisible indigence,

the eyes averting a raised fist,

the self-exonerated carelessness.

It's the vindicated right to be left alone.

So we choose to take cover behind our phone,

we step away, blame someone else,

we come home to check our pulse,

our children, our sundries, our affairs.

Until death strikes us unawares.

Of course, Theresa, we don't blame

you alone, for we share in this shame.

We were already worlds apart

when tragedies hit us so hard:

that which unites fails to bond

if nobody wants to go beyond

the barricades of their heart.

When I remembered the war in Bosnia

watching the ashen-haggard faces of Syria,

it's Richter's Sarajevo's voice I heard

which dug up the pictures, the words,

the agony watching the telly, the insomnias

when I was thirteen and yes, Prime Minister,

even twenty-five years later

I still cry when I think of Sarajevo,

because it's just a new shame starting de novo.

What drove us apart is ourselves,

Theresa May. We forget what makes,

who makes our lives, and we delve,

hurtle headlong without brakes.

Sure, we've grown used to unfair

– blood-and-tears the new wear-and-tear –

sure our life isn't so bad after all,

but we forget how much better it can be –

life isn't just so-be-it shawl-and-pall

or work-hard-play-hard philosophy,

it's also caring for people

and by people I mean any,

people-in-general any,

not just family

nor the polls

or albocracy

because unless we start

showing our real heart

unless we stop looking

and start scrutinizing

unless we stave off ignorance

and start world-educating

unless we dispel the rants

and start accepting

unless we sit down

and start listening,

yes, Theresa, we will be driven

further apart.

 

La Marche

A couvert du murmure des ramondies

l'ombre du vent louvoie l'air de rien

entre les pierres chaudies d'après-midi

obombre les fourbes ophidiens.

Intranquille, l'enfant suit son père,

foule sa foulée, comme instruit ;

il suit son regard aux cieux,

mimant l'inquiétude, mais curieux

des signes décryptés par son père –

Regarde bien, c'est un jour de vipère,

les nuages ne mentent pas comme

le font si souvent les hommes –

la marche alourdie, pesante,

est aussi un signe de serpent.

L'air est sifflant, touffu, crissant au toucher.

L'ombre de l'enfant dans l'ombre paternelle

frémirait si elle avait des ailes –

l'envie d'empoigner cette énorme main calleuse,

cette pogne pleine d'une volonté féroce,

est si forte qu'elle en noue sa gorge –

mais le colosse au cœur de roche veille,

il sent la peur de son enfant qui le suit

couler comme la lumière sur la treille,

il avance comme son père avant lui –

sa bouche est pâteuse comme après l'hostie,

pourtant il est plus confiant à suivre son père

que le berger des grandes eucharisties,

dans le sillage de l'idole aux pieds de fer,

de battement de cœur en battement de cœur,

la peur un poids qui sale les perles de sueur.

Et en un instant,

l'herbe n'est plus herbe, le champ devient ciel,

le ciel devient champ devient herbe

devient le soleil seul œil à ne pas cligner

devient le chant oppressant des criquets

suspendu ou accompli

l'horizon aboli

un pas après l'autre,

un pas devient l'autre,

un éclair, peut-être noir, peut-être bleu

divise soudain le vaste monde en deux.
 

The Seaside

Footsteps shuffling on the shore
Far away surfs distill monotony

Mirroring tears through the entropic

Window pane on a rainy day

Build your fell-fated castles

Write your name as upon water

Leave your marks like echoes

Tread on the sand, trace trails

Foottrails woven in zigzagging pawprints

Discard burnt logs and orphaned bottles

Everything beyond the seashell-line

Is within the salvageable Pale

Everything else the sea will claim as its own

Never to be seen and remembered,

Never to be claimed and saved, ever again.

 

Lone Wolf

"The thing that makes you exceptional, if you are at all, is inevitably that which must also make you lonely."

Lorraine Hansberry, playwright and painter (1930-1965)

Song for the dead

J'étais qu'un pauvre cul-terreux

Dans un village poussiéreux

Ma belle toi t'étais un torrent

Qui balaie tout en un instant

Je t'aimais et tu brisais le temps

On était tous les deux

On se dit que l'amour est émouvant

Quand on veut être vieux

Parce que l'amour faisait pas semblant

Il était chaleureux

Il voulait nous donner des enfants

Il était sulfureux

On était portés par un grand vent

On n'était plus frileux

Mais l'orage s'est levé brusquement

Puis y'a eu un grand creux

J'étais qu'un pauvre cul-terreux

Dans un village poussiéreux

Ma belle toi t'étais un torrent

Qui balaie tout en un instant

On a l'envie d'aller de l'avant

Oui, l'envie d'être heureux,

Pourtant faire le moindre pas devant

C'est déjà dangereux

J'ai parfois fait le mort, oui, avant,

Pour éviter les bleus

Les coups bas, on s'en est pris tellement

Parce qu'on est amoureux

J'ai traversé les sables mouvants

Je voulais être à deux

Mais t'étais un putain d'ouragan

Et moi trop généreux

J'étais qu'un pauvre cul-terreux

Dans un village poussiéreux

Ma belle toi t'étais un torrent

Qui balaie tout en un instant

L'amour du coup devient décevant

Respirer douloureux

Et toi t'avances, tu dis : « Au suivant. »

Et moi je suis comme un gueux

On a des balafres de survivant

Je croyais que tout irait mieux

Mais je marchais comme un mort-vivant

Comme un vrai miséreux

Alors j'ai fait la guerre dans le vent

Avec les yeux vitreux

J'étais comme un bateau dérivant

Et qui sauve ce qu'il peut

Je suis toujours qu'un cul-terreux

Y'a rien dans mon coeur poussiéreux

Qui attend le prochain torrent

Pour être balayé en un instant.

 

Fragment #68

She appeared out of nowhere on that street

She was like a cornered deer

-- Listening to music, her hair slightly messy --

Darting defiant looks from under her brow

Her face closed -- if a little tense --

Her lips pursed with no apparent emotion

Staying her restless feet

-- She came forward packing up her earplugs

said her name a little too loud

And shook my hand firmly

Her profile had shown no picture

Her messages were to the bullet-point

Yet she was here now, larger than life

And smaller than her voice suggested

In a black mousseline dress

With red embroidered flowers 

Bright red lipstick and deep mascara

She looked hunted nonetheless

Her hazelnut eyes flitting about

And past my left shoulder

Everything about her said:

"Come and get me, I dare you"

I knew it wasn't my battlefield

Yet I answered the call to arms

And all of a sudden I realised

That I probably had the same sort of face, every once in a while,

That hunted expression

She was going to a ballet, she said

To justify her smart outfit and make-up

She sported a tote bag with spare clothes

And a smile to damn yourself for

I clearly damned myself the second I saw her

To recognise a hunted look means

you must have hunted something, once

And gorged on the fear before the kill

We had both hunted and been hunted

We had killed and spared

It was time to joust

Now the memory of her is tainted

The plain mockery of the finger

Finding the flaw and rummaging

Through the wound

She was hunting

Now she appears as in a haze

Distant and aloof

Condescending even as I messed up

Me wishing I hadn't said anything I said

The coup de grace was coming

I pity her, in a way,

For having to endure this ordeal

Yet she had the art to be hunted

-- To keep the hunt going I mean --

To worm herself into my waking dreams

Her perfume is now fading away

Her embrace yet remains intact

Her last lie a stone in the edifice

That will crumble and fall

Her last words already echoes

Everything is trite now and useless

The longing so damn strong yet gradually fading

Eventually falling apart, amid sighs and

Shoulders shrugging into the darkness