And surprised by the mirth I provoked,
I repeated once more, “Hereafter’s
Just long enough for a joke.”
Smile, you're caught in the moment,
Don’t fall prey to the endless chase,
Time will pass, but you are immobile,
Frozen still in my gaze.
Time will pass, but we are immortal.
Death, itself, is a fool in a cloak.
Stay with me for merely a moment,
Just long enough for a joke.
On the Brink
The rooster must have certainly been a parrot
Since his call came at two in the afternoon.
I tickled your ribs and you began to unravel,
Until I slipped out of your warm cocoon.
You made me an omelet with cheese and bacon.
I learned that I loved you, but I remained speechless.
We watched, from the balcony, the city awaking,
Embracing the boroughs with stretching bridges.
There was nothing to do and no one around,
So we took the express train into Manhattan.
The electrical worm swerved deep underground.
When we came up for air -- it was already seven.
We ate Middle Eastern, and smoked a hookah.
The scent of jasmine colored the evening lavender.
The moon on the skyline was like a bookmark
As though we would one day return to this avenue.
I remained speechless. The moment was fragile.
A single touch and the clock would beat out of sync.
A couple of words and it could have been tragic.
You and I, -- we were falling in love on the brink...
Anti-War Poetry
Anti-war poetry must be written quietly.
To draw attention, whisper it under your breath.
People won’t listen if they sense urgency or violence.
Never mention the economy, casualties, death…
Instead, write about spring on a college campus,
About icicles trickling onto the pavement or
About gorgeous girls in short skirts playing tennis,
Who would ever exchange this for war?
Shotgun
Lovers fall in love inadvertently. Serpent-like,
The shotgun smoke slithers into the soul’s core.
Empty yourself into me unreservedly,
Scrape my throat for resin and pack one more.
The Trip
You drink your caffeine like a fiend.
This campus –
a set for some Hollywood movie,
where we are the extras.
This scene
will never be viewed, but the moving
branches mimic true life.
We are patiently watching it slip.
I will miss you tomorrow.
Already, I’ve
packed all my bags for the trip.
Parting
There was no grief in your eyes.
You ignored my trembling hand.
No, you had no time for goodbyes…
You made passionate love till the end.
Insomnia
I can’t sleep. I hear cars on the wet highway.
Life doesn’t stop when your eyes are closed.
You are next to me. We are lying sideways,
With our legs and our destinies intercrossed.
I wonder if this is what love does for others,
If questioning love is an act of love on its own.
Is this why your hand gropes under the covers,
For my arm, to make certain you aren’t alone?
The Fog
The fog descended. Nothing could be seen.
The chairs out on the balcony were wet.
He held her by the waist. She leaned
Over the fence and threw the cigarette,
Which at the time was lit, to see it mark
Its path across the grayness of the mist
And when at last it vanished in the dark,
It dawned on her that all of us exist
Just in the moment of some endless chase,
For one another radiating light,
So as to guide each other through the maze,
Which one, alone, cannot discern at night.
I continued to kiss you…
I continued to kiss you,
gently caressing your calves
and thighs in the backseat of the taxi
and you laughed with delight,
and either there was lightning outside
or the curious paparazzi
were taking indecent photographs
of us for the weekly issue…
Careful thief
She stole my voice and shut the door.
Startled, I stared at the window.
Like a careful thief, she wore
Leather gloves that winter.
Autumn. The chill draws nearer…
Autumn. The chill draws nearer.
You bring up the glass to your face
And the creases appear on the mirror
Which no iron could ever erase...
I wasted my nights…
I wasted my nights writing constantly,
till there was no lead in the pencil,
while the heat from the lamp on the nightstand
drove me senseless.
I imagined myself in a large auditorium,
in front of a single person.
Plaster fell from the walls of the corridors
when I started reading my verses.
I wanted to make her love me,
(as if she hadn’t loved me otherwise)
to make sure that she wasn’t bluffing
with her bottomless loving eyes.
I wanted to make her yield to me,
and force her to profess her love for me,
as if she refused to give it up willingly,
so I had to perform a robbery.
I wanted to overtake her with lightning
and thunder, giving her everything in me.
So I wasted my nights writing;
I didn’t know how to love her simply.
Ever Since Our Pathways Crossed…
"Brahms endlessly revised compositions and sent them to friends for advice and criticism. He sent some songs to Clara Schumann with the request, "Write me if possible one short word about each,... such as: No.5, Bad; No.6, shameful; No.7, ridiculous."
In 1879, an honorary doctoral degree from Breslau University calling Brahms "the first among today's masters" provoked a venomous attack from Richard Wagner, who sneered, 'Compose, compose, even if you don't have the slightest of ideas.'"
Excerpt from An Appreciation Of Music, 7th Edition
Ever since our pathways crossed,
I’m like a kid each time I see you
and I compose, compose, compose,
without the slightest of ideas!
I hush my love for now, but once,
I can no longer hide this ardor,
I’ll send you poems just as Brahms
Sent “shameful” symphonies to Clara...
Moving On
We fell in love when love was out of season.
I wrote you poems. Time will dry the ink
And I’ll move on somehow. Moving on is easy…
Moving on is easy when you’re on the brink.
I want to paint the world yellow…
I want to paint the world yellow
and yell at
the top of my lungs
from the rooftops in tongues…
Hereafter,
I want to catch laughter
by its tail,
unveil-
ing
spring
by pulling a thread of its dress.
I want to learn to caress
the lips
that lisp
words of passion
and ash
my cigarette on the stone-cold by-line,--
on the evening skyline.
Melancholy
You said
melancholy pieces suit me well.
Well,
today I dressed up in my Sunday best,
sobbed my belly out
until my stomach swelled…
In places of buttons,
tears
shone on my vest.
Careful not to spill a drop,
I rushed after you
with a mouthful of poetry to recite…
You
were walking down a half-lit avenue,
dressed seductively
in
black and white.
I caught up to you on the corner,
caught my breath
and calmly proposed,
“Listen,
honey,
I need a shoulder
for the burden of verses that I’ve composed.
Just ask me,
and I’ll dedicate everything to you,
overflowing with grief,
and with tears
to spare.
Help me!
You don’t want me to drown
-- do you? --
in the bottomless void of gloom
and despair?”
You responded with laughter.
You thought I was kidding, --
just some talented actor
playing a role.
You didn’t see all the misery hidden,
like some wonderful treasure,
at the depths of my soul…
Learn to forgive the poets…
Learn to forgive the poets.
Don’t reprove
for too much zeal,
when words turn cruel and rough.
We’re wonder workers –
we attempt to move
not mountains,
but hearts of those we love.
Learn to ignore the passion,
when it’s spilled,
like blood on snow,
onto the turning pages.
Poetic hearts, though tame,
cannot be stilled.
They’re wild beasts
that sleep in metal cages.
Learn to provide for poets,
to accept
supporting roles
by which we are inspired
and learn to drain
until there’s nothing left,
then drain some more
to keep alive the fire.
But mostly, learn to listen:
that’s the art!
To see eternity
in evanescent moments.
Once you detect
their faintly beating hearts,
then (only then!),
you’ll learn to love your poets.
The city fell silent…
The city fell silent –
No electricity!
An outage of power –
How outrageously gorgeous!
In offices, restaurants,
On doorsteps and porches,
The suit-and-tie workers
All bathed in simplicity.
Impassioned and mischievous,
You blew out the candles.
Alone, in the darkness,
We kissed one another.
And hiding, like children,
So carefree and careless,
We searched for each other
Under the covers.
Rockport
The explosions of fireworks in the sky
and the bonfire heat on your cheek.
Rockport. Crowds. The fourth of July.
Crammed together. Too loud to speak.
People. Prizes. Festivities. Lights.
And the marching music playing for hours.
Orange moon softly pulling the tides.
There was no seclusion for lovers.
But once the darkness veiled the coast,
on the shore, with a towel beneath us,
we made love, with our ankles exposed,
undisturbed by the thirsty mosquitoes.
It rained. We walked.
It rained. We walked. Your hair
was getting wet.
I breathed its scent. We shared
a cigarette.
God, politics or Hermann Hesse, --
I loved your voice.
We were together. I was blessed
and I rejoiced.
I held your hand. How fragile
was your glove!
I was naïve and I imagined
this was love…
I walk among…
I walk among self-righteous, wicked Pharisees.
They crucify Me and My blood runs red.
There’s truth in wine, but words are full of heresies
At Sunday masses, where My palms are read.
They tear My flesh. I wear the thorny crown.
They spit at Me. I cleanse them with My tears.
I hear My teachings murmured by the crowd.
This murmur echoes for two thousand years.
Parting II
I pray that you forget me when you meet
Another man, more suitable than I.
Exchanging kisses on the half-lit street,
Suppress my name. I beg you, do not sigh!
Let not the moon evoke your love for me.
Let not the wind remind you of my hands.
Time doesn’t stop for lovers. Certainly,
We’re no exception. Let us make amends.
Let’s end it all at once. Heed my advice:
Forget me and the pain will perish quicker.
Put out the lights. You mustn’t see my eyes
Illumined by the candle’s nervous flicker.
The Pianist
The grand piano bites your hands with jagged teeth.
You don’t let up. I watch you play Beethoven
As if there’s essence in your notes and life is brief.
The curtains rise. You leave the window opened.
You bleed in front of me. I dare not look away.
At once, a mortal and a god, you’re omnipotent.
The harmony takes shape; what a superb array
Of colors, forms and barely whispered texts!
Your fingers tame the frantic keys and they
Rush to respond to you, one faster than the next,
Preceding you before the page is turned.
The melody is frantic; simple, yet complex.
Your eyes fixated, tranquil, calm and stern.
They take no note of me. They are sublime.
You're elsewhere, -- in another place, another time.
The last few notes and suddenly, your hands fall dead
Into some endless void. No echo. Only silence…
Then, wearily you rise, with half-closed eyelids,
As though a dreamer rising out of bed.
Portrait of a Friend
She’s dribbled paint and broken rhyme,
full of simplicity and chaos.
Her essence hangs in Guggenheim
on Pollock’s canvas.
She seems enticing from a distance.
Admire her, but don’t get close!
Just one more step and in an instant,
the thread of Ariadne’s lost.
I’ve lost you…
I’ve lost you, haven’t I?
The time moves slower.
My words fall silently
like leaves in autumn.
Inside an empty church,
where mass just ended,
I’m Christ, whose open arms
now hang suspended.
Love flourishes and fades.
Alpha -- Omega.
One day, a god; the next --
a homeless beggar.
Perhaps, it’s for the best, --
no love -- no jealousy.
Wash down my farewell kiss
with sips of Hennessy.
We’ve loved each other, dear, --
how can this love be over?
The cold receiver falls
as though an old revolver.
Stranger
Ten minutes seemed like an eternity.
We were still strangers. All the same,
I loved you ardently and fervently.
I never even knew your name.
The music stopped while we were dancing.
You went as quickly as you came.
You took my breath with you and gasping,
I never even asked your name.
My mornings are gray…
My mornings are gray as if someone lit the
Incense and its smoke spread across the sky.
Not that I’m feeling miserable, just a little
Sad, perhaps, seeing the ink on my paper dry,
Knowing that something has muffled my music.
You’ve left with your mind set. I should not
Call you back to me. There’s really no use in
Opening wounds when you’ve tied the knot.
My mornings are gray. I’ve learned to accept
Even the worst hands that life dealt out,
Because, in the end, nothing changed except
Autumn is colder this time around.
Clouds cover the campus in mystical haze,
Keeping the roadways concealed in its cloak.
The building we lived in appears out of place
Or maybe I'm lost in the cigarette smoke,
But without you near, I don’t know where to turn.
Recalling each step, like an Alzheimer’s patient,
As I’m walking back home, dejected and stern,
Not smiling, gloomy, depressed and impatient.
Dejected, I stray without purpose. It’s autumn.
Everything’s barren and waiting for snow.
I’m all alone here and I’m dying of boredom.
Something is missing. And it’s someone I know.
Break-up
You’re a tease, and I’m willing to beg...
Do not leave in the middle of foreplay!
I will follow you, stretching my neck
through the guillotine of the doorway.
See my gaze, full of woe and regret? --
Do not ask, "What’s the matter?"
To forget how to love you is to forget
how to love all together!
Revolution
“Only through new words might new worlds be called into order”
--Saul Williams
No more cheeks glazed with raindrops, no more roses with thorns--
Only through new words might new worlds be called into order.
I speak of cracks in the pavement, out of which nothing is born,
Not of the green meadows and valleys worn out by immortals.
I speak of a landscape neither barren nor devoid of feelings,
I speak of a garden hidden away from the diligent muses.
I will recite my poetry into the drainpipes of nearby buildings
Until lifeless street-lamps grow ears to discern its music.
Discernible Sound Page 5