Monday, October 27, 2008

At War

You are a mess!
I am a mess?
Yes? Yes? I can't believe this. Yes?

What's not to believe -
There is no panache in you, no talent for love,
none at all for anything remotely subtle.
And you call that talking?
That gibberish you callously hurtle!

But I can write -
Many words. Lines and lines of singing prose,
Sometimes svelte and sweet, or jarring strong.
Surely I can paint my dreams?
My colours, my strokes - that can't be wrong?

There is no fire in what you write...
But I burn!
There is no heart in what you draw...
But I bleed!
Who asked you to, you pompous wretch -
You are barely human by any stretch.

Trash! That is what you are.
Don't say that - please! Look, I can still fly .. look?
Banished you will be, you puny crook -
No! Not me... I am still alive!
A mistake - a mere trifle. Let the Furies connive!

Let there be no pardon for him, no mercy, no grace
Let the solitary silence mask his face -
Oblivion! Thus sentenced is he!
I live on, etched in smoke and dust
Indelible. Indistinguishable from rust
lining the iron chains of reality.
Because live I must.

I believe, I am quite an expert in defeating my self.

Friday, October 24, 2008

Walking home

The walk back home was long. It was the coldest day of this winter and like every first in his life, it had caught him unprepared. The ticket for the bus was 1.50. That was 1.50 too much. Besides, it was always better to walk when one was unprepared.

No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio
o flecha de claveles que propagan el fueg:
te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.

The ipod headphones would keep the cold out of his ears and only his ears. He liked walking back after work. It was a good way to get lost. He put his hands in his pocket as he left the building.

Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva
dentro de sí, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,
y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo
el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra.

The road was lined with orange leaves. The rain had made them wet. They made a squelching sound as his feet mashed them to the road. Autumn smelled good in the evening. Like frozen cigarette smoke and leather boots lined with mud.

The road went past the river and waited in quiet darkness. Waited for the river to flow by and end. Of course it did not end. So the road never stopped waiting. The darkness came and went. He did not know whether he was coming or going. It did not matter. Waiting had no direction and no end.

Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:
así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,

The sound of flowing water stood resolute amidst the silent evening serenading Tinker Bell. Happy thoughts! Carpe Diem! No, Peter was not coming to whisk him off to Neverland. There was no escape.

As he walked, the cold seeped into his marrow and embalmed it with silence. A silence not human but primal. Not sublime but subliminal. As evening melted into night, the moon song called him into the wild.

The runes of his life spelt out this journey. The ruins of his fate scorched this road. The endless road that he walked in solitude. The walk back home.

sino así de este modo en que no soy ni eres,
tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mía,
tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño.

The lines in Spanish are from a poem by Pablo Neruda. The translation follows.

Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off:
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers,
and thanks to your love, lives dark in my body
the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride:
so I love you because I know no other way,

than this where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Tuesday, October 21, 2008


The crevices of my mind echo with your name.

Empty corridors that catch lonely beams of sunlight resting idly on streams of suspended dust and eat them up in dark niches of hollow stairwells beg for the sound of more stolen kisses. Traffic that once roared with the black smoke of angry cars is mute since you took that auto-rickshaw ride with me, with your head resting on my shoulder and declared in a suddenly solemn voice, a desire surreal.

Crowds of commuters file past us into slithering serpents of nouveau progress, as we hiccup and greedily gulp our share of sanity. Endless journeys take no time. Ceaseless waiting ends before it begins. Ironed words and genteel glances caress our senses in ways unmentionable in parochial realms of public scrutiny. In the single scratch that your nails make on my parched skin, lies etched the orgasmic reality of my illusion.

Sweat that lines the hem of my thermal reeks with the ferocity of your love bites. The button of my shirt lodged between the dusty cushions of the old sofa in the attic is the last witness to fallen restraints. The floor boards still creak. The skylight window is still broken. The baby sparrows have long grown up and flown away.

The crevices of my mind still echo with your name.

Monday, October 20, 2008

Better Gift

Dawn, your favorite time of the day.
Geneva in summer is effervescent.
Your father's chair still creaks.
Remember the old fig tree, just outside our bedroom window?
The squirrels do not live there anymore.

The walls miss you coughing.
The wooden floor boards, the scraping of your pink bunny slippers.
I miss hearing you breathe,
when I lie awake all night.

I remember you dancing, like always.
Wearing that silver anklet you got from him.
The soft lilting sounds hanging in the air.
I never could give you a better gift.

You always looked so fragile, almost like a mirage.
Each time you went swimming in the lake,
I imagined a part of you had dissolved away.
Now, I search for those parts in its blue depths.

I went to see Edward.
We are now best friends,
With you no longer there to make us fight.
He knows you loved him more.
Next time, my dear wife, I will insist on being first.

First to love you and the first to go.
I cannot keep letting go every time.
It is too much effort for my old bones.
I must rest a while now.

We will see each other soon,
-- Love.

Wednesday, October 01, 2008


Reality drips. A needle jabbed into my arm feeds me droplets of life. Sitting on a divider between two roads, I see a stream of humanity flow by. Loneliness is a very unforgiving mistress. She refuses to let me go with the flow. The black grey of the endless roads on either side of me goes on meandering into unceasing madness. Rubber tyres swirl dirt with the black smoke of exhausts into sculptures of waiting time. Whirlpools of confusion anchor me to my conscience. Razor sharp questions cut into my skin. Reality drips.


Reality burns. Matchsticks of imagination that scrape the naked flint of my dreams, ignite my skin. Sitting on the banks of pristine blue waters, I see a humanity trickle by. Loneliness is a very demanding muse. She refuses to let the trickle delight my senses. The lush green all around me melts into anaesthetic layers of order. Roller skates sliding on slipstreams of morning fog swirl dollops of frozen time. Pin pricks of confusion sew me into my conscience. Questions burst from a short-fused life singe my skin. Reality burns.