sleeping with a notebook 

no, about to fall asleep – you, not the notebook – with a pen in hand
exhausted but kept awake by the flashing light in your head
that keeps you scribbling pages and pages
you notice this happens a lot on planes, or when you can’t do the other work that you’ve been in the belly of for the past two, three months or longer, usually
in times like this, after a drought comes
a hurricane of near illegible characters
as when you’re half awake and trying to pour your recent dreams into reality
unfortunately illegible doesn’t translate well
doesn’t help that you usually write with your eyes closed
now you really can’t sleep
-‘Inspiration’

6. I looked out to the quiet night

I looked out to the quiet night

and thought I saw the One

But Nature did turn on the light

and lo! my love was gone.

The same way does the tick of Time

unveil the ugly Truth

Yet Love prevails above all odds

That is, if it is pure.

A poem from 2012. ‘This one was inspired by an entry in ‘Emotions’ from the book ‘Why the Toast Always Lands Butter Side Down – the Science of Murphy’s Law’ by Richard Robinson. This book tries to provide a rational explanation of the more trivial – or not so trivial – things in life.’

4. Restlessness

It begins with a trill of the mind, of the finger,

Getting up, sitting down, getting up, walking out

Walking back, sitting down, getting up, trilling continues

Sitting down, shrill fast-forward, getting up, finger taps

On the keyboard, on the table, on the forehead, on the keyboard,

Forming a rhythm that I can’t get out out out of

Like a chipmunk going slower, bashing its head on an acorn

Quick succession of short blips, flips, trips, jitters –

I guess it’s what people call coffee.

jittery-coffee-gif
Disclaimer: it’s not actually coffee.

3.

My blanket is an alpine range

Snow-covered silks with dancing suns

fresh from the sky just for the eve,

an omelette of tourists on cotton sleeve.

// Another day a bloodstained scene of war

with flowers the size of fortresses,

stalks streams flowing up the slope,

vessels of thought, of dreamless sleep.

// I poise my lens, a photographer

capturing a snapshot of the History of Man

before I hop on the late night train

to the place where no cameras reign.


I am adding // s to the start of each stanza (save the first) because the line spacing isn’t working.

2.

The first tree

to lose all its leaves and stand exposed to the hustling of others’s leaves,

the rustle of warmth as it waves its branches in

vain,

wind strong enough to chill but

not to let those fingers touch and feel its own existence –

But it will perhaps hold first the golden chandelier when the spring comes.


(Final work imported from A.Symmetric Space, a side project I have now rescinded.)