Thursday, March 16, 2017

Confessions - dreams

To stand on the lip of a volcano
To watch a hundred sunrises
through the beads of morning dew
To have faith and see it bear fruit
To see, and feel with the heart
To let go of the wildfire of desire
or learn to live with it in peace
To break the catharsis of comfort
To tear down the walls of idle thought
To see with new eyes
as though newly born or
recently cured of blindness
To care, as though never hurt or scarred
To break the spell of the ego
To develop a heart with the sensitivity of an eardrum
To cast off the shackles of doubt
and shadows of delusion
To be free of hesitation when faced
with that which the heart confirms
To love, as though unrequited
yet not become bitter or distant
To let love guide your course
yet remain your own person
To love with more depth and less attachment
How can I love you better?
Without making my loving you contingent
on how and when and in which ways
you love me back?
To hear sounds that make you glad to be alive
To sip and savor gratitude
To become utterly consumed
and enthralled by the Copernicus of beauty
yet still keep one eye sober
To be able to see anyone, no matter how invisible
and hear any story, no matter how quiet
To feel another's pain
To live with your own
To greet it at the door
like an undesirable relative
yet still welcome it as a guest
No guest stays forever
and everything eventually returns

Tuesday, February 14, 2017

i and i

it has been some time
that the thought of death
has visited nor called
or i have not answered
i can't remember
the last time i felt closely
the beating of my heart

it is as if i have forgotten
all the little details of my family home
the lines creasing my grandmother's forehead
the taste of fresh fallen rain through the open window
the perfume of simmering rice
my sister's laughter
my father's stories
my mother's patience

a lifetime ago
i picked up a pen
and wrote on a blank page
what was I looking for?
love? self-understanding?
with whose voice was I speaking?
not mine
not then, not now

it has been some time
that i have listened to that urge
that first stirred me to write
a lifetime ago

it is not i who writes
it is a part of i
and i am a part of i

what do i say to myself now
after one lifetime
what does the part of i now
say to i now and a part of i then?
what stories to share?
what wisdom to relinquish/turn over?

there is no one listening but us
what half truths and lies am i willing to give up?
either i live and die this way
or i release myself from falsehoods i sustain

That Which Lies Inside

There are seasons inside us
Whole continents, deep seas
Sun soaked stone, damp undergrowth
Vast stretches of undiscovered rainforest
There is a Himalayan mountain range
inside you, an unconquered Everest
There are five oceans inside me
Yet I am bound to the mouth of one stream
There are two poles at the center of my heart
There are places within me perpetually frozen
Where winter waits most of the year
before releasing Persephone
There is a Sun in the nucleus of your heart
Between its beats, there are days and nights
There are seas, valleys and lakes in your eyes
There are forests in your interiors blanketed by moonlight
Beneath the sea level of the surface of your gaze
There are worlds deep within us
unfamiliar with the stars
And strangers to the dawn though we may be
We have not forgotten the language of light
For within the perpetual darkness of the deep sea
It is in bioluminescence that we speak

untitled p III

Time is not always linear
It is still 1984
The great war is ongoing
My parents have yet to fall in love
I still believe the world is flat
and the sun and stars revolve around earth
I am still a pagan
The last ice age has not yet ended
I am still an ape
I am that ape waiting for the evolutionary leap
that caught some of my predecessors but somehow missed me
I am a pagan ape
still waiting to evolve
still waiting to exist

Confessions - freewrites p II

Can a thought be unwinded, or unthought?
Does matter return to thought at some point?
A thought, a dream, perhaps the entire universe
is a conception of the sleeping God's mind
Maybe God, wanting to be known
dreamed all of this into being
and we are all figments and silken filaments
of the Divine's imagination
which is more Real than our waking realities
Perhaps God sleeps an eternity as we do an evening
and when God wakes from that life-giving slumber
It knows itself that much more through Its creations
the gateway to life and existence as we know it
the dreamscape that we call the Universe
Eternity is one evening
The Universe--God's dreaming
Beauty is apparent everywhere
but perpetually submerged in shadows
maybe that's why our world can appear so dark
and why we can't draw perfect circles
and why we are so forgetful
and why we need to be reminded of the light
because we exist on the dark side of God's imagination
we are in Plato's cave, enthralled by the shadows
of Beauty and Truth, but having never known them
in the full light of day, and maybe death is only that
a stepping out into color from a cave of shadows
maybe death is simply a dream-riddled night
turning into a full day, maybe death is an instrument
of Divine alchemy, as the figments of Divine imagination
metamorphose into reality, because it is the gateway
through which we pass from night to day
imagination to realization, slumber to wakefulness
Death is simply the end of a dream
but nothing in a dream really dies
it is the shadow of life that imagines and fears death
it is the shadow of life that imagines and fears
the end of the dreaming, for in the wake of death
dream filaments and sleeping potential
turn into the realization of existence

confessions - regression

And where was Awe?
There was only I
So much of it there was no room for anything else
let alone Awe, which requires high ceilings
or no ceilings at all, and where was I?
The truth is I don't know
I would like to say on the cusp of something
or the verge or threshold
but there is nothing, I slept through my dreams
and they really became dreams; forgotten.
I was in myself, on my self
there was no room for anything else
when you become so consumed
in something so small as oneself.
Where was I going? Where am I going?
with this body, worse for wear with each year
Where am I going?!
Bewildering to realize that is the question
you ask yourself
Not where Awe is, that is established.

Thursday, September 1, 2016

Morning Pages part I

Morning pages, afternoon pages, pages of my woe, of obstacles designed specifically for me, for a perfectionist like me, who likes to ponder about commas and where to indent the line and fickle or sickle to my wrists, oh ye control freaks, and perfectionists, who like to ponder moments before they arrive and long after they are gone, what little worlds are you and I constructing in the neat gardens of our imagination? What worlds are we conjuring all of us as we sit on the subway in silence, avoiding one another's eyes, looking at everything, posters, bits of rubbish on the floor, old vandals' signatures, and rereading advertisements, all to avoid holding a stranger's gaze? What is it that we are avoiding? What do we have to lose but the little worlds and big thoughts that consume us in transit?
There are 10,000 ways to greet a stranger, and not all of them involve words or speech. And I near my stop, time flies when the pages flow from me, I need this like my body needs exercise and stretching, I am not quite sure what I am stretching when the pages consume me, but it is somewhere inside, maybe my head, maybe even faintly in my hand, but most certainly somewhere inside my gut or chest, is my throat involved at all? Or is that only when I am conversating freely? Is this a form of conversation? Who am I having a dialogue with when I write freely in the pages? Is it me and myself? One part to another? Which parts are involved? If this is truly conversation, does it reflect the same dynamism as the dialogue between two persons? Certainly not, right? I mean, it is much slower to write a word than it is to speak it, for another, you have no idea what could be said next in a conversation, could the same be said of this inner dialogue? Could I really surprise myself? Could I checkmate myself without knowing it if inner dialogue were a game of chess?
I don't think so, but what do I really know without swimming the length and depth of the morning pages? So I will swim, and doggy paddle and pull myself through the sluggish waters of my soul, and commit to the pages every chance I get until I have an answer, or until I start writing poems again.
There are 10,000 ways I could write this; I am lost and I am looking to be found, no I am lost and I am looking for myself, a part of me is in the lost and found, but I can't remember where I lost it so I don't know where to look, or I am blind to parts of me, so I believe parts of me are lost, but really I don't know what I am looking for, I don't know what's lost or found, I am looking for something I cannot name, I am looking for something I am not even sure I can recognize.

Thursday, August 11, 2016

Gros Morne

I don't want to leave

This place

Is too beautiful
To put into words

And I am afraid
I will forget this beauty
And how it makes me feel

I am in love and terrified

If I drop, there is nothing to catch me
And yet, a part of me wants to
Cascade down like the falls
There is a lake beneath
I would be at home
Just another ring on a tree trunk

Mountains are the measure of the Earth's age
And these ones are ancient
They are the roots of the previous epoch's Himalayas

I am at one of the world's oldest graveyards
And all around me is a wedding of life

Thursday, August 4, 2016

Daily Bread p I

Everywhere, I seek daily bread
In any moment, at any time
I look about for a taste of daily bread
In the conversations of others
In speech, and a stranger's smile
Through a woman's voice
And another's gaze
In the songs of the birds
Over the bridge on the subway
In the middle of empty streets
Along the contours of a foreign tongue
Through all the races and variations
Of the human form
Among tree tops
And the bed of stars
Through the quiet hours of the night
I seek the daily bread
In any shape or form it takes
On giant television screens
On stages
And a multitude of screens
I keep close to me
In the park, at work
In my lover's embrace
My mother's voice
Through particular arrangements of words
Amid tragedies of Greek proportions
And all the triumphs of the human soul
I seek the daily bread apportioned me

Daily Bread p II

I seek the daily bread inherent in memory
Or a recording of your voice
Or a picture of your smile

I seek the daily bread in sharing a cup of tea
Over personal stories that shrink distances
Like a phone call

I seek the daily bread
In the smile of passerby
I seek it in books, in headlines
On screens, and search bars
I seek it on the bus
In the metro
On my way home
And in your arms

I seek it in your eyes
And in your step
I seek it inside you
I seek it outside you
I seek the daily bread in fire
And surrender
I seek it beneath the moon
And over the horizon
I seek it in the stars
And bodies of water
I seek it in the arch of your calves
And in the twitch and tremble of your lips
I seek it in the skip of your pulse
And in the sudden absences of your breath

A Love Story p I

Love is the fire where bread bakes
Fire is the bread of lovers

These words cling to shadows
The fountain is dry
And the eyes don't see
What of bread? What of lovers?
Who am I to speak of faith, of fire?
What do I know of lover's bread?
I am full of wine and smoke and sweets
What does a full belly know of hunger?
Of bread burning under white phosphorus
And depleted uranium?
Of ovens that will never bake another loaf?
Of hearts that will never race again?
And eyes that will never again dance
At the sight of a loved one?

Do not ask me of love
To it, I am a stranger
I have approached the edge of its flames
And imagined the experience of burning
At its center
This imagining, I speak into words
But only fire, and burning can speak love's name

Friday, July 22, 2016

Harbourfront Nap

Oblivious to the movements and happenings of the harbour, they slept side by side, both shirtless, beneath a full and generous summer sky, his shoes turned over, as though kicked off as a last thought before sleep took hold.
When they awoke, she removed his right sock, grasped his foot and picked at it gently as if cleaning a wound, bent with intent, utterly consumed in the task. Afterward, they kissed, for a long time, like it was the first time, or the last, and nothing else existed but the kiss.
They garnered few looks, and spared even less for the people strolling and sitting about. After another kiss, another crossing of the water taxis to the island, he knelt before her, bared his head, and she sat over him, bent with intent again, this time a dry Bic razor in her hand, as she carefully shaved the back of his neck, in a manner approaching ceremony, with the same unwavering focus, as though each stroke of the blade were a brush of the lips.