within and outside this un-meddled sphere of my arms
October 5, 2009
there is nothing worse than being in exile
September 30, 2009
i stir my coffee slowly
clockwise and then anti-clockwise.
a newspaper sits on the table like stale crackers
moist from the humid air,
a drop of sweat
hanging precariously
from the tip of my nose
collapses;
suddenly giving up
………..its will
descending below -
to rest upon
an empty page of a diary
dated September 29.
poets are like cement mechanics
September 16, 2009
they try to break the mold.
he walks among us
September 10, 2009
the monster collects his debt
he wears a different costume
and a mask to conceal his ugliness,
the monster visits unannounced
he has a limp when he walks,
and a vague stench of inconsiderate
resentment rises from the ground,
but his royal ugliness must accompany
every house,
dawn to daybreak
from the little penniless orphan
to the rich man’s quarters
he knows his way around.
the monster must have his pay
to settle the accounts.
–
slowly undressing in the dark
September 10, 2009
mother thou art perfidious and unwise
and father doth a husband play
his role in a doll-house
this is my plastic life.
“mother” i ask her every time,
“have i done this right,”
she nods, and nods,
but never replies,
i must be like a wall
on the fly,
white smokescreen jammed
between a hornet’s nest.
i turn back to watch the clouds
form funny shapes, a dolphin,
a man with a big nose
or a long necked woman
with a turban on her head
fading or at times becoming intense
while the wind sketches it’s lies.
i do not know
but i often think
how people talk of big things,
but you can see they do not know
where they are going with it,
they have learned to love the music
of their own speech;
harsh, soft, familiar,
misty, remorseful,
different keys of the same
miserable piano,
the subtle indent in the pause,
or the long interminable stretch where
the audience loses patience
sweat clouds the brow
suddenly beaten together by the falsetto
and the dubious expression,
somewhere in the midst of this dramatic
presentation,
there is a slight faltering
of their inane programmed system
that joyfully validates my point;
the silly silly mistake
of earning a living,
pretending to imitate the second
man on the street,
the whorish depletion
of individuality –
the inferno
revived.
seven steps and sudden leaps, on seven stones for seven leaves
September 9, 2009
nay, the bird is not a prey
if your eyes can concentrate
along the raspy willowy
unformed branches
of an unbent tree
too tired with age,
or if her feet unbuckle
from the twitch of reason
underneath the curvature of
a sheer black skirt encircling
the motion of earth,
she would turn around and laugh
the sudden sway of her hip
disturbing the momentum
of an ever so still mid-afternoon sojourn,
nay, the bird is a falcon
as it perches on an elevation
and hunts for its prey
in the seven steps and sudden leaps
on seven stones for seven leaves.
Abed Azrie And Ana Torroja, Media Luna – Deep Forest
September 9, 2009
Friedrich von Schiller – The Circle of Nature
September 9, 2009
All, thou gentle one, lies embraced in thy kingdom; the graybeard
Back to the days of his youth, childish and child-like, returns.
Come Beloved / Hanna Jahanforooz
September 9, 2009
O come beloved and
for thy lover’s sake
untangle this contorted,
uncertain affair
Fill our cup with wine,
may it be sour or sweet
Before the potter fashion our
ashes and dust into hollow cups
with silent, parched lips.
by Omar Khayyam
أريـدُ أن أمـوت – آني سيكستون
September 6, 2009
