The Hunter

He had been told to wait here.

He had been told his opportunity would come.

He was lying on the ground, behind a few rocks.

Cold sand would occasionally trickle through his shirt.

He had been told not to move.

He had been told to wait, and to search.

He could see dewdrops hanging on bristling blades of grass.

Not a sound to be heard but the wind.

He had been told patience was key.

He had been told action was key.

Sunrays were crawling along the ridges of the plain.

Temptation to draw circles in the sand.

He had been told games were over.

He had been told he was old enough to hunt.

He had been told hunger made one more precise.

Hunger would make him a better hunter.

All had nodded, so there must be some truth in it.

He had been told that sometimes to search is to wait.

That waiting was searching.

He recalled his mother's stroking his cheek.

He recalled his younger sister's look.

He had been told to wait. To watch. To seek.

He was watching. Waiting. Seeking.

Secretly wishing for nothing to come.

He had been told to hide under the wind.

He had been told not to yield,

when the time came.

Wait and search was all he could do now.

He remembered the taste of blood, the pain

they had sought out of his body.

He had been told it would strengthen his spirit.

He had been told it would make him ready.

He didn't know what to expect.

He had been told what to do.

Shown what ancestral strikes killed.

He had been told everything.

Everything he had to know.

Yet he thought all was futile.

Yet he had rather ambush the red leaves

dispersed by the late wind.

Or scout the first shards of light

nose up in the electric air after the storm.

But the tremors in the ground echoed in his chest.

Shifting somehow made sand rougher

the air grew denser

clouds greyed the dawn.

The wait had come to an end.

The search had to be rewarding.

The time had come to hunt.

 

Hic Sunt Draconis

In the dark shade of the trees

Grow monsters hooded like monks,

Just as beautiful as peonies,

Under the aegis of the trunks.

Innocent-looking krakens

In the manifold places of their birth

Appearing from cracked earth

In the security of the gardens

In the fertile soil at the foot of walls

Or where any form of decay falls.

The neophytes, never taught but warned,

Still drawn to their shapely form

Took windrows home

And their tables therewith adorned.

Souls once immaculate

Now to the wolves thrown

The hem of their habit

Locked in their petrifying hand

Unable to run away

Or join their hands to pray.

Sheep, undisturbed most,

Thrive and graze

Feeding off these

Unminding of the dose

Which would be lethal

In vertiginous fall

For many other species.

That which kills could cure

If that which would cure didn't kill,

As love budding and dying

Which, in so doing, does death instill.

First comes the tingling, the shortness of breath

Then the numbing and the heartache

At the hands of the quiet Goliath

The flesh so weak, so weak

The mind numbed

the heart stunned

If ye need be angry, poison,

In thy tyranny be quick!

Less innocent creatures feed

Now on these fatal flowers

Born in terror and in terror breed

More formidable their powers

More potent their poison

Turn reason into treason

Deepen the hell of these bowers.

For now basilisks and asps

At leisure among these flower fields

Reshape our confidence in maps

Turn quiet lands into battlefields

Ready to rear up and hiss

For hic sunt draconis.

 

Noma

The word has been spelt out.

Two syllables, just a handful of letters really,

which mean life will never be the same again.

The tremor has passed.

No shock to speak of,

as deep down we knew

that deep down

some thing had woken up.

We could almost feel it.

This word, with timid lips pronounced

a few months ago,

now has gathered its full impetus.

It doesn't mean anything, per se.

It simply is a diagnosis,

an explanation for the discomfort,

for the ache waking us up,

a description of the pain that be,

a herald of the pain to come.

As simple as it may sound,

the barbarity of its actual name

scorches the very heart out of us.

Yet it also brings a sense of conclusion,

some weird feeling that now that

the storm has broken through the overcast

serenity can finally be achieved,

independent from survival or defeat,

from absolution or culpability.

Some old words will acquire new meanings.

Others will become obsolete.

Others will need to be invented.

What is left now is the fight

against one's own body,

one's own determination,

ironically finding the cure

at the exact same place

where the sickness first grew.

Ironically finding a new direction,

a renewed impulse and a refreshed step

whilst before we so fervently wished to die.

It may even be that one word

or a word-within-a-look

uttered from someone's heart

shall give us strength beyond reckoning

or shall break us into pieces.

Such is their power, and ours.

Today, we heard the word

which spelt our rise or our fall.

Today, we are in the eye of the storm.

 

Briar

A simple touch had been enough

her fingers gently rustling

the hair on the nape of my neck

this simple touch was enough

to wipe out a thousand years of solitude

If only I could forget this simple touch

I would sleep at night.

 

fissure vs fusion

we need to

break the i

why should there be

a capital letter

i is no better

than you

words are br

oken

duct-taped together

and to the line

so they don't shift too much

nothing as more irritating

as a definition that

veers, realigns

auto-corrects

they don't mean nothing

unless you really need them

unless you sort the you out first

clear out the imprecisions

so we can understand one another

why should there be a form

norms are made to be br

oken

noone is made of straight lines

they converge or diverge

run parallel if only for a while

but choices change

they don't last

in the wake of headlines

full of eyes and alter echoes

it's a battle of words

while we struggle for words

to say we love

to say we understand

or that we care

you and i

should see eye to eye

not turn a blind i

when we err

in the i of the storm

for there is beauty in the i

when it means something

to you

 

Arctos Rhododactylos

– Le froid, insupportable, avec pour seul remède

une vinasse chaude, épaisse et aussi laide

que sa maigre cuisine sans espoir ni chauffage –

Oui, il est fini le temps où elle avait un âge.

Ces sons qu'elle n'entend plus – l'eau qui bout,

la faïence qu'on ébrèche sur l'évier –

et d'autres qu'elle n'aura jamais entendu –

ceux d'une vie dont elle a sans le savoir déviée.

Elle grelotte sur ce lit où jamais le repos

ne l'a trouvée, apaisée, aux côtés d'un tâte-au-pot.

Le soir tombe et ses nuages comme un laguis

referment leurs doigts sur son corps alangui.

Voilà que ce Christ étendu en miroir en face

lui rappelle des choses qu'elle voudrait qu'on efface.

D'un geste tendre et machinal, elle caresse sa poitrine :

la boursouflure en son sein qui la démange et la chagrine

ne lui concède que le seul réconfort, tout en pensant à Lui,

de la certitude charnelle de l'orage durant la nuit.

 

Memories

Whatever memories you have of me, they're now yours, and yours only. I have made myself forget them, forever obliterated from my mind. I am no longer interested in your friendship, in your company. Keep your social networks and teeming-crowds revelries, amuse yourself in empty halls, break all the oaths of presence when hardships strike down one who was one of yours.

Vain promises of vain people, and empty words.

You are living in and fostering an illusion which is propped up on your lack of knowledge in an age where absolute connaissance is possible. Be dumb, be scared, and alone with hundreds of friends who will never surround you, never prop you up, never be anywhere near your deathbed.

You foolishly think you have the power in your hands whilst you're holding onto thin air – your breath really – and you don't count the instant between this breath and the next.

Focus on your petty absolute necessities, and leave me alone now. I am tired of chasing after ghosts, of reaching out to your silhouettes in the dark, of looking for hope in you. Yes, I am tired of you, and your posts, your meaningless prattle and your technological whatnots.

I cut myself off of your world, and retreat, and shall come out only when duty calls, and only then, and commend you to a thousand devils until I forget about you altogether, and start living in peace, for the first time in decades.

Yes, I have given up on what people call life, without having so much as a clue about what it means. So what? Not a single one of you have professed any allegience to it, nor any wish to uphold its most basic standards. None has done anything to embellish it. I have done my share, tried my best, and I've seen you mar the work and my strengths are now spent.

Leave me alone, forever.

 

Aleppo

“Aleppo won't be there anymore,” i heard say,

“if we don't do anything to save it.”

terrifying thought, come to think of it,

that the alabaster city will be gone, any day.

in december, so this person said,

everything and everyone

will be gone or dead –

in quiet terror –

the battle neither

lost nor won.

for thirteen thousand years,

the copper city has stood

and withstood

the fears.

for thirteen thousand years,

it slowly gave birth to nations,

those that now bring it tears,

that wipe its generations.

today it lies blasted,

its wide-open rib cage,

licked clean, bloodied,

bathed in pure rage,

dehumanized,

pillaged,

shelled out of its shell,

pelted in,

buried

its language, its culture,

its buildings, its sculptures,

its ruins,

deconstructed

the city's whiteness marred,

washed in mire –

yet Aleppo has already disappeared –

when the first bullet was fired

when the first chunk of ground was delved

on july the nineteenth twenty twelve –

Aleppo was scratched off our memories

before we even dreamt of its demise

unthought

long afore its pines were seen dancing in the breeze

long afore its children were heard barrelling through the streets

Aleppo and its people were lost to us

Aleppo and its people are lost to us

Aleppo and its people were

Aleppo

Alep

 

The night buried in your lap

the night was buried in your lap

and your apron modestly covered it

the light from the oil lamp

amplified the waves of the fabric

it was decided that you would

encompass all that was made

from the sun to the woods

and the sea, you poor maid

sadness was made yours too

by some dark chain of events

and the waves of your dress

you shyly hid from the light

so that none would perish

in its ebbing threads

nor lose sight in the buried night

that night buried in your lap

 

Lucky

He is being told that he is lucky,
Lucky to be alive, lucky to be healthy,
Lucky to have a job, lucky to have friends,
Lucky to have money in case he needs meds,
Lucky to have a roof over his head –
So he is also lucky to be able to see red,
Also lucky to have both his legs
And the full usage of his ten fingers.
He's lucky not to see the leper that begs
Or the maimed that slowly dying lingers.
He is also lucky his ex doesn't kick him out
Or that his family doesn't blame him for the breakup.
He is lucky to be able to pout
Or in the event of tea to have a saucer and cup.
He is lucky that no one dismantled the sun,
Lucky that the world doesn't spin the other way
Or he'd have to live again the pain at a slow run,
And go through the irrelevant – for some – dismay.
He is a lucky little bastard,
Yeah, that's what he thinks he is,
If he doesn't turn drunkard
Or if he can find peace.