Rain
They say that rain is droplet of water from the cloud
When it comes down
it searches for sign of drought,
it loses itself
in heavier rain.
Theres not much rain in my city.
This reminds me of us, of your eyes looking into distance
when I look at you.
Your eyes: a breathing mirror, my evening cradle……
(If all this isnt too much, my dear)
Sometimes I would bury myself in pouring rain,
eyes closed, thinking——
If I forget how Ive lived through all,
it is your eyes that I shall blame but then forgive.
(If you could say: No, not at all……)
They say that rain is droplet of water from the cloud,
that rain is love.
Solid Geometry——A Tribute
If I shall fold and reduce the time into
A pocketful of definite shapes:
a willow grove, a spiral staircase, womens pearl buttons,
And rest them, one by one, at your doorsteps——
So on the same morning, when you retreat from your last sleep,
maybe——you could have all the worlds creations and kills collected under the sunlight——
Touched, quivered, yet began to live!
In spite of the eternal distortion of horizon I ventured,
I amaze at your cupidity of the divine disorder which
urges you, tilting a colored stone, to wonder:
who will I be in this hour of
disquiet, on the day of doom?
Here beneath your feet,
ancient tribes on march, skulls whitened by centuries
——old secrets, and fire——
the primitive fire upon your frail shoulder,
licks away the angels and puts out the green stars…
If I could only do this for you, my love——
to elate your fresh desires and thirsts,
I shall be contented.
(Eventually, if the time shall reduce me into
a shell, a mimosa, a song in the valley, a handful of dust,
and rest me near your hands and breaths——
I shall company you whom Ive courted for so long and whom
I shall forever be inferior to——
and secretly, fit myself into your finger——ring for a memento fore ver.)
Published at Yarn, an online literary review,in 2016
Published at Creative Communication in 2016
1908
We were riding through the frosted fields at night
When winds were easy and moon in flight.
A sudden rosy light sprang up from the end of the forking path
Roused the weary ones gentle wonder:
Whose carriage creaked softly down the road
In a fleeting moment we did pass by?
One of us slowed his pony and whistled.
Did he also catch a glimpse of the sad brow
Under the black hair, white shawl floating in the dark, and
Trembling fingers fixing an earring?
That was many years ago. And yet again
Aroused by the same gentle wonder,
I put down the pen and think of her whom upon the path I meet no mor e.
Published at Yarn, an online literary review,in 2016
In Response to Van Goghs Wheatfield of Crows
WHATS UNDER THE PAINTING?
Eyes are black swarms
The buzzing
becomes
louder and louder
in the two deep blue,
burning worlds
(From where comes the blue? From upon? From below?)
Sharp beak, the hand of wheat
targets the eye,
staring
Two worlds
burning a deeper blue
CLOSE YOUR EYES NOW
The wheels crushing the night
wallow through
Cant tell
if its a strand of
a stretch of
or a flock of…
What is left?
Points and lines gallop across
Colors rise like a moon
NOW LET US HANG UP A MOON
Eyes, a flock of crow
crash into
a circle of
hard silence
Where am I?
Deep blue doesnt answer
but quietly
shed its skin,
exposed to moonlight
AND TAKE OUT THE CROWS
Silence falls upon the wheatfield
(Silence is a small pack of thing,
just like a night)
Black-blue swallows the wheatfield
The buzzing between the two worlds
softer but sharper
Somewhere far from the wheatfield
Eyes, crows
sit on the
frame
Whatever is burning now,
will long remain so.
OPEN YOUR EYES
It let us in
and out.
and in.
