Tag Archives: poetry

The Obliteration

The Obliteration of the Golden Vase, the One we think we are.

The wise one who sat and watched toughts float by.

Only to realise that s/he is not alone in doing the Watching.

The sudden realisation of the meaning of “I”.

Starting to think of that whenever the word is mentioned.

Only one letter in a whole alphabet?

No wonder I feel stuck!

The Gratitude at being served this knowledge.

When I not long ago was believing something entirely different.

That the vase was alive.

That I had somehow to fill it.

Or at least show off some good flower(s).

When there is nothing to change at all.

Throwing that cherished vase into the wall though!

Will that really be necessary?

No need to!

It is already starting to look like a vase that only once

Was.

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The boulevards that are life

 

Without gazing further

than the next shop-window

walking down the street

along the boulevard that is life

 

Sobbing in restrooms

of cities without names

picking garments on sale

along the boulevards that are life

 

Hanging paper over holes

in the walls and

pounding on a nail for the hostage

driver of a hijacked bus

and the zebra crossings

are black and black only

and deep

between the boulevards that are life

 

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Lost and Found

 

As God puts on new shoes and

Wets the clouds between stations,

Taps my shoulder, does grey laces

I count lost property

Along a neverending road:

I lost that diary

I lost count

I lost touch.

Now, miles away from miles high

As God puts on new shoes

I count rocks and tap my sandals,

tapping the rhythm of no sound at all.

 

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Silver bullet

 

My friend saw a silver bullet,

tiny

fall from my skirt

and bounce,

twice

and disappear.

It never even tore me apart.

 

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Lick

my sweet heart

dripping

do not rip

to reveal

a clue: You

I do not hate

my sweet heart

 

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Ballerina

 

No longer stuck

 

between lines

not knowing

what to say next

balancing life

and death

between what was and what is

between nothing and less

but still.

 

Yes, I tried

to hang up

a hundred times

but now I am

spinning slowly back into the hive –

white and pale, humming

along tunes

balancing on a line

and piruetting out

of a box –

to Nolongerstuck

between loves

between hate and love

between lost and hive

between lines.

 

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Rejoice!

Rejoice!

all of you

on the fringe of thought

you’re the skin of the bubble

about to burst

so rejoice!

all of you labelled mad

by the ‘sane’ ones

there is sanity

and insanity

finity

and infinity…

rejoice.

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A dead white dove

 

Bizarre silk-shimmering dream

to wake up and

reach out to turbulent

velvet-glowing happiness,

and paint a picture

upside down.

 

I don’t know anylonger

why

the spinning sunegg has got

a dead white dove

and a tree the same size

inside.

 

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How nature her moves

 

Bhagawhandi P. was an Indian girl

whose brain a malignant tumour’d swirl.

Admitted to hospice in seventy-eight

the time-bomb ticking ‘it’s getting late’.

 

At nineteen she’d lived her life to the full

cheerful resisting (a bright girl) the pull

of seizures becoming more frequent and stranger

a dreamy state, to her not a danger.

 

Going from vague to concrete visions,

a passage to India and an admission

free from them both, medication and rain,

back to her loved ones and fields so plain.

 

She does not believe in time as decaying,

dances down sweet hills, forever surveying,

as nurses their hands on her forehead place,

how nature her moves in mysterious ways.

 

It’s no dream-madness but phantasms, all

clear memories turning of spring and of fall.

Not charged with passion or driving her mad

but paintings, tone poems, happy and sad.

 

As if in a trance, eyes open, unseeing,

her faint, mysterious smile not fleeing.

Just once Sacks asked his Bhagawhandi

‘What is happening please can you not tell me?’

 

‘I am dying, dear Doctor’ the answer came

‘Or call it returning, it is all the same’.

Another week and she did not respond

to external stimuli or to the fond

 

remarks from staff, and then she died

or as they called it, ‘at last arrived’.

They wonder now and one asked a friend

‘Does dying mean being born again?’

 

I provide no answer, just a feeling detect

that I neither wish to indulge nor reject.

Instead I tell you now I am done with this ballad

and will go down to compose me a salad.

 

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