Posts Tagged leaving

SEASON

11800109_10152887214052522_4745391911932372643_n
I haven’t seen how the wilting
Made you chase rivers and the savage
Churning of the waters on your body

Made you sob loud enough
To wake the dormant depths of other rivers

The mountain today is silent
All its mournful serenade are muted

everytime the stories you weaved
Are graceful as the flooding that took
Houses crops and dreaming of mud people

Stories of moon falling like fruits
Breaking like eggs and revealing the suns
You stole when you became nameless
In regions where everything dry
Is a celebration of abundance

Today in the savagery of your nakedness
In your honesty the crevices where
All those forcibly lost are found
Tagged named and are lost again

I felt them again
Like how it was back then
When wilting and greening
Is felt not seen.

, , , , ,

Leave a comment

Our Days of Nimbus

to where?

I am not done yet.

Inside me is like a room with dark drapes drawn across a bright day, it’s a sealed place where creatures who crawl, and fly cannot enter. In the middle is a coffee table, with books half consumed by fire, litters the left edge, then there’s a pencil over papers crowded with scribbles and other manuscripts. There’s supposed to be an ashtray not to catch what is left from cigarettes but to contain the ashes of burnt leftover love.

On the left is a small wardrobe, five steps from the coffee table a red rug starts to lead you to where my clothes are being kept, in snaking diagonal formation is a sentence “here meals are rehearsed from your memory”. You’ll just have to acquaint yourself to seeing things in the dark and you’ll see shirts, long sleeves, jeans, socks, under wears, pants, slippers, bags, bed sheets, towels, notebooks, pens, shoes, pillow cases, and to the delight of the gloomy-weather-worshipper is a sun block, mascara, tanning lotion, and lip balms – sometimes these are essential, who would know the ozone would want to open itself bigger and bigger?  Tacked on the wardrobe is the list of things that are sent out for laundry, and some little instructions how to wash them. Standing on top encased in glass is a battery powered latex  laser sword with an instruction “for alien invasion only”. Think, but don’t think too much, i don’t want you to get any idea, how things started and how it will move from here.

Perpendicular to this is a little bed, big enough to accommodate strangers that are lost,  this may be a quaint room but it still needs company. The sheets covering my bed is soft, with pillows that allows you to bury your head every night when dreams are too much to contain, when you grind your teeth, and talk before going deeper to dreamscapes.

Littering around my room are luggage; all sort of cases, and mountain bags, you know i can leave anytime i want. On the ceiling are lizards, made me think that they are couples, i always think of them as collectors of stories that happened inside my room. The stories might be too much for them, as yesterday i found a third one, and another spider on the corner. They need to have more and more allies, now they need cobwebs to capture despair that the lovely reptiles failed to catch. They capture dreams and re-dreamed them.

Outside is a veranda overlooking the river village, and where the river village looked back. the veranda made of wood creaks in protest every time i’m out to survey possible escape routes. A few meters below, before reaching the river is a minefield of sadness, you can see wilting flowers, dead animals among them, soiled clothes sticking out of the earth, a punctured tire, rotting boats, a broken tv, a spectacle, a wig, a colony of rats, the stench of decay, and a butterfly. it came to me one night and settled in my stomach, that every time we converse and every time i hear your stilettos echoing in the alley outside my door, the butterfly would convulse inside and i am reduced to worldlessness in your presence, everything in me crumbled like a poorly baked chiffon cake.

i saw you and then i think of delayed breakfast, fried eggs, toast cut in neat little squares, salt and pepper, cinnamon,  coffee with milk and brown sugar, delectable morning, and i think of hunger, because i am of the world that doesn’t have words for everything, my mouth doesn’t open to received gifts of nourishment, the joys of nibbling your crisp laughter, the glory of tasting the saltiness of your sweat, and the earth on your body. the high-heels calling my attention, the feet, the map before reaching the knees, and the hem of your dress, a curtain call for archers to bend their body, and words to keep the hollow of your form. That tiny curving nails set to abolish the repetition of verses coming from all direction, that tender arm is capable of doing all that is violent, tearing all that intrudes your territory, sending to martyrdom thirst and hunger, the vagabond distraction becoming still. You open roads against the shadow.

Directly under my bed is a secret passageway, where exit is the only thing allowed.

 

The purpose of poetry is to remind us
how difficult it is to remain just one person,
for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors,
and invisible guests come in and out at will.
-Czeslaw Milosz

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

4 Comments