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.’
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.
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.
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
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(Final work imported from A.Symmetric Space, a side project I have now rescinded.)
Your torso is a ladder against the back of the chair again.
When did it sink this time? But it never falls past the awkward,
never enough for you to lie down on the seat and float,
gaze resting on the constellations in your eyes.
(Imported from A.Symmetric Space, a side project I have now rescinded)