Walking with ghosts

When the ghosts come out

of that hole in space

everything freezes in place

My first instinct was to doubt

those I thought a mind projection

as they were all killed in action

When the ghosts wake up

oft before the morning cup

I feel like burying underground

But they don't let go, and like hounds

trace you everywhere you go

those who were friends now are foes

Today the ghosts are out again

but they are angrier than ever before

their contour more blurred, and more

are crying as if in pain

they ask for justice, monies for their death

ask me to atone with my own breath

Today the ghosts will claim me as their own

for why should they sleep under stone

and I walk freely and unhindered?

So as I walk under skies sundered

the ghosts tear my mind apart

guide my steps to the edge

of that long footbridge

and heave my purple heart

right over the ledge.

 

blue on blue

blue on blue

When the first shot rang

the patrol ducked on the ground

it was a shot in the dark, and some ran

and some fired back a few rounds

we were ambushed, though radio

said it could see no foe

We had two men down, one KIA

and one bleeding from the throat

but radio said it was just us on that slope

but radio said help was on the way

spark on spark

When later we came back to assess

we were shocked and awed, for sure

we witnessed the extent of the mess

even though the day was still obscure

only a finger-triggering coup d'œil

was enough to see it was all so cruel

We had not been attacked

one of us, somehow, had panicked

and had pulled the trigger

there was nothing friendly in that fire

dusk on dusk

We were privates, and it would stay private

said the officer in charge of the incident

so we were told not to dwell on it

and next time to be more vigilant

but 'neath the witching hour

the taste in our mouth was sour

We were left out of the last dogwatch

the hour between dog and wolf

perhaps because they feared we'd botch

the job again, and hell all engulf

shadow on shadow

We saw the coroner come in at the mess

he dropped the bullet in our tin plate

it banged like the seven bells of fate

it was a 5.56, confirming the final guess

we platoon watched our feet, and hate started

we wished our hearts were armour-plated

when beast eat beast, someone said

there's no knowing friend from foe

some left, some with us bled

some shrugged, some eyed the ammo

blue on blue

When the sun went down again

it seemed we were for the first time awake

perhaps it was not as much our mistake

as your decreed silence which was our bane

which would for years take its highest toll on us

as even now we cannot face ourselves to discuss

We guess that perhaps you mean well, perhaps

you mean to protect us from ourselves

from the guilt, from the mouth of our own gun

yet the blue hours drag us back in, right back in.

 

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)