The line

  

I know when to start

and know where to stand

the words to be said

and what they will end

I know what my part

in all of this plays

which line I need to tread

in the fury of the blaze

The why I know by heart

why on our own be we must

I learnt it from the dead

as all of us turn to dust

I know where to start

and know when to stay

the words have been said

ending it on this day

I know that my part

started the avalanche

even though I was afraid

this line was but a branch

I know to be in my heart

unease and unhappiness

I buried too many dead

lines ending in a mess

I know that it is an art

to lose and love again

one line in the vaster thread

bonding us with the same chain

It was best to be apart

I know that now she’s gone

now that this heart has bled

the line in the sand drawn.

the rage

– the rage was always strong

more powerful than anything –

the rage made her /kiss/ the boy

and bite his lip and his ear

it also made her /miss/ the joy

of missing his playful sneer

– the rage made her b(l)ind

even when/as he was kind –

the rage was a /comfort/ after love

taking (over) the butterf/lies

her heart /racing/ from above

him boring into her eyes

– the rage (sometimes) fired /down/

/letting/ her chin up against the drown –

the rage powered her emotions

pushed her /over/ (and) beyond

made her curl up without motion

had her reach out /or/ despond

– it made her (feel) love(d) and hate(d)

– she /fuelled/ it lest it abate(d) –

yet she knew that one day

the rage would /depolarise/

– conquer her or fade away –

– what would happen to her

would she shine and rise

or so(m)bre and wither –

the rage – all she had ever known –

l/aid in wait, w(h)ir(r)ing –

watching over the /seed/ sown

– patiently (un)stirring –

trusting /only/ in the soil

to breed /solace/ and turmoil

– the rage /woke up/ into being /one/ night

knowing – she would one /day/ (dis)appear

her deed s(ole)ly to /darken and light/

/everything/ for her to /live/ loud and clear –

(dis)illusioning choice in the hea(r)t of the rage –

– the rage, no/w/t/h/er/e, (f)or n/e/ver –

the empty spaces

once more, I’m tired
tired unwaking up
tired of sleeping

the cold next to me
the pillow still there
untouched
the empty space

above the bed
the light bulb
looks down at me
lidless pupil
it used to glow

no more light
as the dawn
breaks the clouds
your smell lingers
on the pillow
I need to go out

the streets slowly
stirring from slumber
the space so empty
so much it hurts
like tinnitus

the sounds around
don’t mean anything
or anymore
anymore

the cars, the stores,
the passers-by
it feels so empty
in the tube the crowd
yet I'm lost, and alone

the void around is
the void within
the silence often
the screams at night

treading the empty spaces
unlooking for you
where I first said
I love you
where you first smiled
and said
I love you back

I am where we were
happy once
happy once
your smell lingering
on the pillow
I see your smile
the memories bleeding
into one another
into reality even

breaking the veil

almost as if
you were here
but it’s just me
here again to shout
another message
hoping the wind
will carry it to you

I'm so lost
now you’ve gone
the world off-centre
spinning but
somehow stopped
clutching at the breeze

I still call your number
to hear your voice
on the answering machine
unthinking what will happen when
the voicemail will no longer work

did you get the letters
I wrote in my mind
and the pictures of
the places you liked
when we were there
now without you
I sent all the love
I had left

though I won’t send
your pillow, I cannot
I need it, like I need air
every breath
every breath
in and out

every time, you die again
every time, I die again

the empty spaces
in the bathroom
your toothbrush
on the couch
your half-read novel
on the pillow
your smell your hair
in the kitchen
your empty chair

you die again
you die, again
over and over
every day

but I keep you
deep inside me
where you won’t die
anymore
anymore
where you and I
will be safe
forever

watching the sun
set and rise
holding your scent
in the cup of my hands
white-knuckled

and the tears
through the tears
and gritted teeth
in the wind
your smell
the only thing
worth living
worth breathing

for a while
we are one
in between
empty spaces

I as another

"How strange is the lot of us mortals! Each of us is here for a brief sojourn; for what purpose he knows not, though he sometimes thinks he senses it. But without deeper reflection one knows from daily life that one exists for other people -- first of all for those upon whose smiles and well-being our own happiness is wholly dependent, and then for the many, unknown to us, to whose destinies we are bound by the ties of sympathy. A hundred times every day I remind myself that my inner and outer life are based on the labors of other men, living and dead, and that I must exert myself in order to give in the same measure as I have received and am still receiving.

I have never looked upon ease and happiness as ends in themselves -- this critical basis I call the ideal of a pigsty. The ideals that have lighted my way, and time after time have given me new courage to face life cheerfully, have been Kindness, Beauty, and Truth. Without the sense of kinship with men of like mind, without the occupation with the objective world, the eternally unattainable in the field of art and scientific endeavors, life would have seemed empty to me. The trite objects of human efforts -- possessions, outward success, luxury -- have always seemed to me contemptible.

My passionate sense of social justice and social responsibility has always contrasted oddly with my pronounced lack of need for direct contact with other human beings and human communities. I am truly a 'lone traveler' and have never belonged to my country, my home, my friends, or even my immediate family, with my whole heart; in the face of all these ties, I have never lost a sense of distance and a need for solitude..." Mein Weltbild, 1934 (Trans. The World As I See It, 1935)

Albert Einstein (1879-1955)

Nunquam said this

"Religions are not revealed: they are evolved. If a religion were revealed by God, that religion would be perfect in whole and in part, and would be as perfect at the first moment of its revelation as after ten thousand years of practice. There has never been a religion that fulfills those conditions." God and My Neighbour (1903)

Robert Blatchford, journalist and author (1851-1943)

We who work in vision

"A scientist is in a sense a learned small boy. There is something of the scientist in every small boy. Others must outgrow it. Scientists can stay that way all their lives."

Speech at the Nobel Banquet in Stockholm, December 10, 1967.

George Wald, American scientist and Nobel laureate (1906-1997)

The Better Man

  

Queueing up at the store

the old man shuffled behind

in torn, ragged clothes

his hair unkempt,

smelling of wet dog –

the other customers stepped back

he was counting his change

a handful of battered coins

his wrinkles sagged like his shoulders

he had stared at sun and rain

with an unflinching face

his hands had seen winters

many winters

he was buying those soggy baguettes

the kind of which gotten

at the bargain section

a can of the cheapest tuna,

two cans of a good brand

of dog food

a tomato, two bananas,

and a couple apples

his hair showed signs of combing

those from a hand once firm

those which lack a mirror

then he muttered to himself

clenched his fistful of cents

left the queue in a hurry –

the people moved like an ebbing wave

the picture of him feeding his dog

better than he fed himself

of him trying to keep himself

and his clothes

neat

oblivious of his dog's smell

I moved the checkout divider

told the cashier I'd pay for his items

when he came back he didn't notice

he had picked a third can

when the cashier didn't stop

he extended his hand

she told him – she repeated

he didn't seem to understand

he looked at me

he opened his mouth

twice

he had no words

I nodded

he nodded

his food in his crumpled bag

he moved to go out

twice he turned back

I didn't look

too busy daring glares

at the judging crowd behind

when I got outside

I saw him near the door

his dog was happy to see him

nuzzling in his armpit

whimpering

patches of skin showing

through the shaggy fur

something broke inside

perhaps his dog thought

he'd been abandoned again

perhaps the man had forgotten

the impulse of charity

he held his dog's head

for the longest time

maybe that was their happiness

showing through the rents

their way of greeting

an unexpected stroke of luck

come dinner they would eat

out of their tin cans

smile, nod at one another

pick their teeth clean

he would tell his dogs

stories of the old days

and they would fall asleep

content, reassured

him patting his dog

happy he could get

the food he likes

come morning he would

try his best again

to look as decent as he could

comb his hair,

fasten his belt,

get enough food

to bring them both

safe and fed

till the next morning

he was

without a doubt

the better man

 

Etched in crumbling stone

  

"'Writing' is the Latin of our times. The modern language of the people is video and sound."

Lawrence Lessing, attorney and political activist (Wikimania conference, August 2006)

Fields of knowledge

“There is a beauty in discovery. There is mathematics in music, a kinship of science and poetry in the description of nature, and exquisite form in a molecule. Attempts to place different disciplines in different camps are revealed as artificial in the face of the unity of knowledge. All literate men are sustained by the philosopher, the historian, the political analyst, the economist, the scientist, the poet, the artisan and the musician.”

Glenn T. Seaborg, chemist, Nobel laureate (1912-1999)

All the wrong places

I've been looking for you in all the wrong places
down in the soggy dregs of coffee in my cup
I would try to tilt and turn the little bits
until they might shape into your face
but they dried so I had to give up

I've been looking for you in all the wrong places
up in the stars, connecting the dots to each
unsure if Vega was a good start or end
until I ran out of breath and space
as none were within reach

I've been looking for you in all the wrong places
into the bubbles of the foam in my bath
I would watch and listen to them pop
until I unsaw the mirrored gaze
and became Sylvia Plath

I've been looking for you in all the wrong places
through long nights of browsing Tinder
each ghost had something of you
until you would be effaced
drowned in cinders

I've been looking for you in all the wrong places
in between written words and musical notes
through hundreds of songs and poems
until I could no longer retrace
what I'm sure was a quote

I've been looking for you in all the wrong places
for you might have passed by in old Polaroids
I even checked VHS tapes and jigsaws
until no left-over puzzle piece
could surely fit the void

I've been looking for you in all the wrong places
in footsteps I never heard, in scented eaux
I never smelt, deaf and blind to signs
that you might not ever surface
until I have to let you flow