A Selection of Marie's Powerful, Masterfully Expressed Poems

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I think Marie created a new poetry style which is confessional and philosophical at the same time. Marie's style reminds me a bit of Andrei Tarkowsky's movies - extremely powerful through the use of simple images. They say that Tarkowsky's movies are for "sophisticated minds" only, and I think one could say the same of Marie's poems.  Marie is considered by many fans a Poet Laureate (and not only of the autistic community) as well as the Australian Sylvia Plath. (Sylvia Plath was Marie's idol.)

 

All poems © Marie Faverio

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Speak the Truth

 

Speak the truth, even when your voice shakes.

Maggie Kuhn

 

Speak the truth.

The birds will stop singing

when the bullies shout “Victory!”

and walk away in their black boots,

laughing.

 

They will stop singing

and fly away

to an unknown destination

where opinions and smiles count.

 

Speak the truth,

or hypocrisy will steal the hearts of the gullible

and the meek will turn into grinning lions,

salivating for you.

 

Speak the truth.

Oppressors thrive on fear.

Your voice might shake,

your eyes swell up with tears,

but your beliefs will be the stronghold

of the oppressed,

and your heart beat with pride.

 

Speak the truth.

​

***

​

Let Me Fly

 

Let my body bleed

until my soul is free

and pain crumbles

like a parched leaf.

 

The lie of “you are here for a reason”

has been exposed,

the key of the jail found.

 

Let me fly, or even crawl,

away from here –

the light is out there,

not here, not now.

 

The palm’s lines

have joined into a circle,

destiny’s whip is silent.

 

Let me fly, or even crawl.

Let my soul

be free.

​

***

​

Rebellious Greek Gods

 

I wish I could put

dawn in my pocket

for later,

to comfort broken

or reluctant dreams,

give them a reason to be.

 

They don’t like clouds

and can’t see the silver lining.

Rebellious Greek gods,

their pride stronger than mine,

 

I am their friend and slave,

stretching out my arm and my soul

to thrill them with perfection,

always failing,

like Tantalus.

 

Wrapped in indifference,

the moon sneers at me,

shouts its revenge,

its disappointment,

untamed shrew,

alluring without loving.

 

Without uttering a single word,

an elusive poem pokes me,

but soon slips back

into nothingness.

​

***

​

The Clouds Don’t Care

 

The moon unloads

her grief on me.

We are both ghastly, shallow,

but I don’t shine,

not any more.

She wins,

she always has.

 

I am weak,

and transitory as a happy thought.

My relationships don’t last,

but hers earn immortality

through poetry and art,

the prickling aura of saints.

 

But she is not a saint,

her mouth bloody as Mary’s,

her dark side

hidden to inattentive eyes.

 

She shoots

arrows of disappointment

on my bruised body

and yells at me

like an angry mother.

The clouds don’t care

and never stay long enough

to efface her iniquity

for good.

 

She smiles behind them,

knowing she will win,

her grin shining through them

like an omen

or a revelation.

​

***

​

The Black Vacuum

 

The black vacuum

wants to suck me in,

alluring me with fata morganas,

nursery rhymes that don’t stick.

 

I know better.

The tiger’s roar is my mantra,

the lightning bolt my beacon.

I am no bunny.

 

Big careless vacuum,

twiddle your thumbs

while waiting for the next victim.

I am out,

running somersaults

on the unmowed lawn,

 

gloriously ignoring

normality,

improvising nutty poems

for deviants.

Good-bye.

​

***

​

We Failed

 

We failed the test of love.

We failed the test

that makes us human –

the heartfelt handshake,

the hug,

the smile that counts,

the empathy so strong

it keeps us awake at night.

Orpheus’s lyre is silent –

love has become an instinct,

just another “it’s all about me” thing.

 

We failed because we were allowed,

even encouraged to fail,

lulled by a false sense of security

(the reward for making the rich richer).

We failed because caring

has become shameful –

it’s all about pride –

me, me, me!

 

The Muses are crying –

deserted like best friends.

Who cares about art and poetry

anyway?

Why bother?

 

Let the moon bleed its shine

on sleepless maniacs.

Let the world keep spinning

like a broken toy

in the hands of a madman.

Who cares about caring?

​

***

​

The Hermit

 

Amidst murmurs of leaves

and grandeur of sun,

the hermit enjoys life

unscathed by the fake smiles

of Vanity Fair.

No racing routine,

no fuss.

 

The compass of change

does not touch him,

his only goal

the lost habit of happiness.

 

- Do not touch me.

I am as fragile as life.

- Do not touch me.

Light hurts those

who do not seek.

 

- Let the blue of the sky shelter me,

the fronds unafraid of boundaries.

- Let the sun and the moon

be my only lights,

my precious guides.

 

Lulled to sleep

by secretive moonlight,

the hermit doesn’t dream

of money or glory,

skyscrapers or fake handshakes.

​

***

​

Give Me a Song

 

The journey of the scared soul

through the desert

is daunting,

and the blue of the sky

does not smooth the pain.

 

Where are the birds?

I need a song to find the way.

The only sounds here are the moans

of my own mind.

 

I need branches to toss up their blooms

to remind me that I am alive.

I cannot compromise with fata morganas

any more.

 

This hushed perfection

has the imprint of death.

Give me relief from the merciless,

uninterrupted sun.

Give me a song.

 

Give me a bird with hope.

Give me a hallelujah.

Give me a vision

to clutch.

I need to know

I am alive.

​

***

​

Do Not Mention the Word

 

Do not mention the word.

Stigmata turn into stigma

when people don’t understand.

You are supposed to smile –

do your duty.

You are supposed to nod –

don’t be defiant.

 

Up, up in a row!

Make the salute to Life,

emotions verboten,

Auschwitz everywhere.

Hail, Leben!

 

Do not mention the word.

People will point fingers –

they will not understand,

they will not love.

 

Up, up in a row,

you with the striped pyjamas,

up, up in a row!

 

Do not mention the word.

They will whisper behind your back

and avert their eyes

(ah, the quick comfort of wegschauen).

 

Do not mention the word –

they won’t care.

Do not mention the word.

 

Footnote: The word is “suicide”.

​

***

​

Another Lady Lazarus

 

I am not a copycat.

It just happened that way.

Maybe we are kindred spirits,

maybe Fate likes to torture

competitors in fame,

force them under the buzzing bell jar.

 

I am not a copycat,

but if someone thinks like me

I won’t say I don’t agree

just to be “original”.

It just happened that way.

 

I am not a copycat,

but I know there are things

that just have to be –

because happiness counts,

and it counts big time.

 

Resurrecting is an art,

like everything else.

Peace destroyed,

you start again

from scratch,

fist in the air.

​

***

​

People

 

Some people disappear

like clouds or random thoughts,

or poems that want to come to life

when you can’t give them attention,

and then they just leave disgruntled.

 

Some people are casual encounters,

like people in a crowd

or the birds in the sky,

or daffodils doing silly things

in the wind.

 

And then there are the people who stay,

the orchids.

They are rare.

They are beautiful.

They have bits of sunlight

all over them.

​

***

​

How Many Times

 

How many times

do we have to fold our hands

before we realize

we are our own gods?

 

How many tears

do we have to shed

before we realize that actions

are stronger than tears?

 

How many wounds

do we have to endure

before we get used to pain?

 

How many times

do I have to die

before I see the light?

​

***

​

My Epitaph

 

Here lies someone

whom Life refused to love,

someone who was forced

to keep going with a shrug

and a puzzled expression on her face.

 

Here lies someone

who was shunned by the masses

for yelling “No!” to Life,

someone who was disrespectful of nemesis

and the unfair consequences

of disobedience to tyranny.

 

Here lies someone

who hallowed difference

and condemned banality,

someone who refused to conform.

 

Here lies someone

nobody will visit

because this someone

wasn’t a hypocrite.

 

Here lies Marie.

Here lies a poet

with tangled hair.

​

***

​

There Is a Smile

 

There is a smile

so full of sadness

that the heart collapses.

 

Tears glisten in the late

afternoon sun, sad

reminder of futile illusions.

 

Illusions keep us alive.

Illusions kill us

when the devil of reason

stabs us with the painful truth.

 

There is a smile

that is the prelude to rage,

a smile that has given up hope,

a smile that shouts revenge.

 

There is a smile

so full of sadness

that the heart has no chance

against reason.

​

***

​

The Last Note

 

I have sung a song

nobody wanted to hear –

the song of Death,

the song of the bleeding self

wandering barefoot

in search of comfort,

wondering about the meaning of life,

this and that.

 

They stopped their ears

because they recognized themselves

in the pain of awareness.

They stopped their ears

because they wanted to believe

that they were loved

and that the seed can still

grow into a powerful flower.

 

They stopped their ears

and closed their eyes

and listened to the song in their heart,

blessed with the thrill of illusion.

 

I have sung a song

nobody wanted to hear.

Leaves and petals

covered my sandals

as a reminder

of my own mortality,

lulled by the breeze.

 

I looked up

and saw a dove

fly into infinity

the moment I struck

the last

note.

​

​

***

​

​

Raw Magic

 

The harsh sun,

the breath of the air

on the skin allergic to walls,

the it’s-all-around-you

that is the defeat of space,

the blue so intense

you forget it’s an illusion,

the eternal Now

that joins the arms of the clock

into a straight line –

my stunned soul is with you.

 

Dreams hang on

in spite of casual defeats

in this raw magic,

unafraid of the footless darkness

and other random

charades of fear.

 

The door is slammed open,

and I finally

see the light.

​

​

***

​

​

The Spark

 

Let the spark be the fire

that ignites

hearts, minds,

the centre that spins

unseen,

the fist that unfolds

into a caressing flower.

 

Let the spark be the ambitious

alpha striving to re-unite

with omega

to complete the circle,

the possibility that doesn’t

give up.

 

Quixotic rainbows

are rainbows too.

Scientific explanations

are not welcome

when they destroy dreams.

 

Let rainbows be rainbows.

Let the spark be a spark.

Give it time to evolve

and shine.

Love it.

Feel its warmth

in your heart.

Shine.

​

​

***

​

​

Teachings

 

What life taught me –

                              not to trust.

What the mind taught me –

                              give it back.

What the heart taught me –

                              love is still an option.

​

​

***

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​

Broken Rainbows and Artificial Suns

 

We live in the land

of broken rainbows

patched together by make-believe,

desires drilled

into messed-up minds

that try to make sense

of tossed-up puzzle pieces.

 

We live in the land of artificial suns

and nightingales,

our skin pale

with forced walls

and flickering screens

incapable of love and random

act of kindness and hugs.

Screens stare,

don’t love.

 

We live in the land

of fake smiles and likes,

while dangerous thoughts are towering up

inside,

higher and higher,

 

until the tower

starts leaning like in Pisa,

just more privately,

and then collapses

like a Lego game

gone wrong.

​

​

***

​

​

The Silence Inside

 

The silence inside

is the real bomb.

You stumble upon the debris

of your own self,

stunned,

chloroformed by misery.

 

There is nothing more to say,

not in terms of words.

Eyes are shut.

They don’t daydream any more,

blinded by the world’s

haversack of indifference

and subtly smiling arrogance.

 

Sometimes they stare

in astonishment,

without understanding

what is not

to be understood.

 

Blindness

(like ignorance)

can be a blessing

in a world revolting

around illogical everything.

 

If you walked

outside the cave

you wouldn’t understand

either

and would be blinded

to irreversible insanity.

​

​

***

​

​

There We Go Again

 

There we go again.

Somebody has died right now;

somebody was born.

The cycle of life goes on

like a tedious echo

in the valley of no answers.

 

Who stops to listen?

Nobody.

Who cares?

Nobody.

Part of the circle,

we don’t see the whole,

and the spinning is getting

faster and faster.

 

Get me off this crazy

merry-go-round.

I am dizzy.

I cannot see

my loved ones any more

in this dark vortex

that unanchors memories

and stunts imagination,

the darkness that sucks.

 

There we go again.

Somebody was born right now;

somebody has died.

The instant has become eternity.

The beat of wings has faded away

and a new song is to be heard

far,

far away

in the distance.

​

​

***

​

​

Phantom Souls

 

The curtain has fallen.

The actors are tired,

limp limbs,

blood-shot eyes that know,

but refuse to acknowledge,

acceptance defied.

 

The stage is dusty,

the audience walks out,

bored,

self-absorbed,

busy with that strange thing

called life,

unwilling to acknowledge

their failure to understand.

 

The curtain has fallen

and the hedonistic everyday

has taken over souls again,

souls that don’t seek,

don’t love,

phantom souls

in phantom people.

 

The actors walk out

and will not come back

for an encore.

​

​

***

​

​

The Bell Does Not Toll for Outsiders

 

My battling wings

are getting tired of nonsense.

They know the anxiety of rising

without the certainty of the goal,

and the panorama from above can be scary,

the all-engulfing whole

unsoftened by casual details.

 

My battling wings

are bleeding,

exhausted with existence,

the big joke that doesn’t

elicit laughter

but tears.

 

My battling wings

keep flapping

irregularly

(oh, the horror for an aspie!),

almost frantically,

until darkness sneaks in

and the bell tolls.

 

If you asked

for whom the bell tolls

they would tell you

it’s for me,

and that the bell doesn’t

toll for everybody

when it tolls

for outsiders.

​

​

***

​

​

Tree of Swords

 

Tight in your embrace,

Life,

I fear your bruises,

the “Jetzt Du” order,

the slap that sends the meek

into uncouth unconsciousness.

 

Tight in your grip,

Life,

I fear your logic (or lack thereof),

the messed-up beads of the abacus.

 

Your hands on my neck,

Life,

I surrender in my body,

but not in my mind.

 

My corpse will rot,

but my mind will blossom

into a tree of swords

with the word Victory

engraved on the blades,

shimmering in the midday sun.

​

​

***

​

​

Life Happens

 

Under a voraciously

blue sky

scratched with light,

life happens

at the ticking of the clock,

insouciant,

obsessive,

breathless at times,

always marked by strenuous briefness.

 

Then one day

the ticking stops

as if nothing had happened,

nothing at all,

and dust runs wild

in the coffin.

​

​

***

​

​

The Simplest Dawn

 

There is a suddenness of joy and colours

in even the simplest dawn

undaunted by clouds,

a somehow unhindered

view of eternity.

 

Even the simplest dawn

teems with aha moments,

cobwebs dissolving in tentative light,

cityscapes smeared with mist,

 

while the day’s ribcage slowly bursts open

and teeming creatures walk out of it

full of hope and habits.

 

Sounds soar,

and the clock starts its haunting.

​

​

***

​

​

Ach Du!

 

Chasing the lure of freedom,

the unscheduled happiness of the moment,

we leave behind the spinning circle of ifs

and scheduled thinking,

the dreadful limbo of a possible future.

 

We want to breathe,

but we often don’t know

which air to breathe,

or where.

The air at the top is too pure

for mortality.

It can inebriate you with view,

then mercilessly kill you

when the moment turns

its back on you,

forcing strange visions

into your mind.

 

Freedom…

Beautiful

Powerful

Merciless –

Ach Du!

​

​

***

​

​

Flowers on Graves

 

These flowers are more

than an explosion of colours

or a levy of petals

tickling the senses.

 

They shout for life

on graves shelved on forgetfulness.

They are the only token of life

right here

in the garden of silence,

 

where humans fail to keep promises

of eternal love and other stuff

the moment grief finally finds

another victim.

 

They are powerful.

They are eternity’s war paint,

the pride of the grave.

 

I don’t mind their mockery.

​

​

***

​

​

A Bird Called Freedom

 

There is a bird outside.

The bird’s name is Freedom.

The bird is perched on a huge

dark tree called Oppression.

The bird used to sing

the most beautiful songs

but is now silent.

 

People go their way

around the huge dark tree,

unaware of Freedom,

eyes nailed to the ground,

a bit out of habit,

a bit out of boredom.

​

Freedom looks down for a second,

then hides her face under her wing

and falls asleep on a bare

branch of Oppression.

She doesn’t dream of anything,

absolutely anything.

​

​

***

​

​

The Cricket’s Song

 

A cricket singing

on a giant leaf…

Under the leaf,

here and there,

dust of moonlight.

​

​

***

​

​

Shouting for Life

 

Shouting for life –                                           

not from the top of the hill,

but from inside –

tomorrow

might be too late.

​

​

***

​

​

The Last Accomplishment

 

The hand followed the decree

of the bleeding heart,

the grin shone in the darkness,

the sabre clicked.

The Greek necessity had been fulfilled,

perfection engraved into peace.

The door slammed shut,

and the wind stopped blowing.

​

​

***

​

​

Hope, No Hope

 

I started my journey

on the path of hope,

but the path was full of shards

just around the corner,

and I was barefoot.

 

I knocked on the door of hope.

Nobody opened,

and the light went off.

 

I climbed the mountain of hope,

but there was nothing

but a whisper on the other side,

and then it stopped.

​

​

***

​

​

Homeless in Paradise

 

Dew tickling my ankles

in the grass sparkling with jacinth,

patterns emerging from chaos,

this and that unravelling,

still indistinct,

the godawful hush of the night

spiralling into sounds,

tinsel visions

arrowed with colours…

 

All here and now,

in the front row

of the deserted beach –

homeless in paradise,

where splendour is a habit,

not a choice.

​

​

***

​

​

When the Silver Lining

 

There are times when the silver lining turns black,

strangling hope and all those weird feelings

people love to nurture

(it’s always nice to cling to something

that gives you a reason for survival);

other times it disappears

and you slip (or are kicked) into nimbus,

the grey zone from which not everybody comes back;

but occasionally (albeit rarely) it turns gold,

and you see the light face to face,

and it’s so beautiful you don’t even think of turning back,

and you don’t even remember the silver lining that turns black,

and just keep going until you run into the Truth and say hello.

​

​

***

​

​

The Light That Touches

 

Nothing but a burst of blue

in the unruffled sky –

a wink of mortality here and there,

then immensity again,

the light that touches

the unteachable heart.

​

​

***

​

​

The Butterfly

 

A butterfly

mistook a dead flower

for her mate.

She stayed with it

until the end of the day,

which for a butterfly

also means the end of life.

 

In the morning

the street cleaner swept them both

away

without taking notice

of anything.

Absolutely anything.

​

​

***

​

​

Eurydice’s Hand

 

A friend lost in the dark realm of death,

mocked by monkey tails, never-ending laughter

and the howling of furies,

a friend walking barefoot on shards of broken mirrors

reflecting the pain and shame of life –

a friend or…

who is it?

Maybe your alter ego,

the projection of your fears,

your future self?

 

The shadow keeps going,

eyes cast down,

back bent into a question mark

in spite of allegedly walking

towards the answer.

 

There is no turning back

(who would want to fall

into the flaming abyss of the past?),

but the road ahead is thick with signs

pointing in all directions,

and laughing little demons sitting on them,

mocking you,

your insecurity,

your fears.

 

Eurydice is waving,

but her hand disappears

among the swaying Dali signs

and their laughing demons.

You call your friend,

but the voice you hear back is your own,

bouncing around in the valley of no-return.

​

​

***

​

​

Keep It Simple

 

Love before being loved.

Greet before being greeted.

Smile before being smiled at.

Forgive after being hurt.

 

There is no real logic in goodness,

nor is it needed.

Why do you want to make things

too complicated?

Eh?

​

​

***

​

​

The Light

 

The light went on,

but there was nobody inside.

The light was passion,

the room the heart.

 

The light kept burning,

its rays glimmering in the dust

of the cobwebbed room.

 

The wind was blowing outside,

and the room looked nice and cosy

from outside,

but inside

it was lonely and dreary,

 

and an old record player kept playing

the same minor-key music

over and over again.

 

Until one day the light went off,

and ivy stifled the door

nobody had ever opened.

​

​

***

​

​

If You Cry

 

If you cry

and nobody listens,

go and listen to somebody else

who is crying.

 

If you cry

and the world shuns you,

go and give somebody else

who is crying

a big hug.

 

If you cry

and the world laughs at you,

go and cry with somebody else

who is crying -

because her sorrow is your sorrow

and her smile is your smile.

 

Feel the power of oneness.

Love without asking why

and without turning back.

​

​

***

​

​

First Thing in the Morning

 

This morning

I walked out

into the garden

and saw a nameless flower

open up in slow motion

under the attentive eye

of the rising sun,

juggling with light.

 

It made my day.

​

​

***

​

​

The Bird

 

And the bird flew off

with hope on his back,

his wings wistfully following

a divine decree

he didn’t quite understand.

 

And he kept flying

through wind, rain and blinding sun,

his feathers heavy with the elements,

his heart heavy with grief.

His eyes were aching.

locked into darkness,

his throat in the flames of thirst,

but the little bird kept flying,

following some will

he didn’t quite understand.

 

Until one day he found a tree

at the top of a mountain

with scraps of blue sky

caught in its branches.

The tree was huge and thorny

and had lost its leaves

to the harsh hand of time,

but the bird perched on it

and knew it was the Goal.

 

He looked down into the valley

through misty eyes,

and saw it had burst into bloom,

and people were cheering,

and colours fitted together like a Lego game,

and there was a rainbow spanning it all.

 

So he closed his eyes

because he knew the moment had come,

and his little soul flew up to heaven,

where the hope he had on his back

when he started the journey

became a hurling reality,

and he lived happy

in the hands of God

forever and ever.

​

​

***

​

​

And If

 

And if one day they will forget me –

at least I loved what I did,

and the passion in me was so strong

it could have shattered crystal

with just one syllable.

 

And if one day they will deride me –

at least I dared to be different

and scuff the edge of consent

for the sake of art.

 

And if one day the worms will dance in my grave –

I will dance with them

because there are situations

when you just have to ask yourself

“why not?”,

and this is one of them!

​

​

***

​

​

Unfolded Hands

 

Reality crowds me in,

suffocates me,

pushing me past the threshold

of sanity (whatever it means),

eyes heavy with unbearable memories,

dead colours.

 

I tried to bribe Fate,

but she denounced me to the gods,

who could finally hear

after so many years of aural isolation,

and took revenge.

 

Now the willows are unstirred,

dawns are grey and song-free,

the sky frozen into omens,

hands hanging down like dead birds,

unable to fold into a prayer

for fear of being ignored,

for fear of being hurt

by indifference.

 

The cock has crowed.

The future has just entered

the tunnel.

​

​

***

​

​

The Search

 

She searched for happiness

here and there,

up the mountains

and down the bottom of the sea,

in the heart of field flowers

and in the luxury of Buckingham Palace,

in the simple wisdom of fairy tales

and in the most complex existentialism.

 

Her shoes were worn out,

her heart’s song had become as low

as a mourning bell,

the devil’s tuba.

 

So her shoes now became her bare skin,

her song the leaves’ whisper,

which she followed even in the absence of trees

because there was still a tiny branch

with tiny budding leaves in her heart’s garden.

 

The weather didn’t listen

to the heart’s reasons or to Pascal,

but she didn’t listen to it either

and kept going.

 

Until one day,

her eyes blind with tiredness,

her bare feet bleeding from the thorns in her path,

she looked up and saw a cloud

so bright it shone,

and a ladder running through it,

 

and in spite of her crippling mood

she started climbing the ladder

because the urge inside

was now stronger than ever,

and the song inside a whole

chorus of hallelujahs.

 

She soon disappeared

in the breast of heaven

and was never to be seen again,

but it is reported

she found what she was looking for.

​

​

***

​

​

Recognition

 

She hurled a mantra into the air

glowing with the ambers of dawn,

her face flooded with light

and awful recognition,

the shock of the truth.

 

Feeling a surge of strength inside

that reached far beyond

the far side of the fading moon,

she seized her horded sorrows

in a straight shot

and hurled them into the sea,

 

watching them drift away

into terra incognita,

gracefully accompanied by the first sunrays

skating on the water,

rearranging waves on the retina

past the slippery slope of fantasy,

then gleaming into nothingness

like a Sufic regret.

 

When she walked into the water

she had forgotten why,

but kept going

undaunted by the violence of growing light

and the gulls’ dervish dance

in the air fraught with colours,

watching clouds rub themselves up

against the invasive blue,

shrugging at human frailties and stupidities.

 

All rumours of mortality

were shattered with a bang

when she disappeared

into the light.

​

​

***

​

​

ABC of Happiness

 

Accept what cannot be changed

Break rules now and then – just for fun

Clear your mind of negative thoughts

Dare the impossible

End all your actions on a positive note

Forget negative experiences

Grant yourself a reward for your efforts – you are worth it

Harmonize your actions with the divine plan

Imagine heaven in your backyard

Joy – find it in small things

Keep to the Path

Learn to smile even when you are sad

Minimize resentment

Never say no to opportunity

Open your eyes to the hidden beauty of the everyday

Practise meditation

Quench your curiosity, don’t give up

Remember to say a friendly “hello” to at least a person every day

Sorry – never be afraid to say this word

Try hard to be yourself

Unity with the divine should be your only goal

Vying with others won’t make you happy, you know that

Witness miracles whenever you can

Xenophobia – make it your enemy

You are your own destiny

Zest your life with a touch of humour

​

​

***

​

​

The Birth of a Poem

 

A sudden song,

insistent as a maniac bird,

a biro digging in,

the surprise birth of a poem.

​

​

***

​

​

The Poets’ Return

(Winner of the 2008 ISPE Poetry Contest)

 

Plato won.

We have been kicked out

of his Republic,

our Republic,

our country,

we, the spinoffs of the mind,

the dark disorders of the mood,

the useless poets.

 

We have been kicked out

because we knew too much,

because we were dangerous,

bad omens

full of muddy nostalgias

and a certain radiance

that frightened the leaders

reluctant to share their halo.

 

We have been kicked out

because we were harbingers of truth

refusing to tap

into the reservoir of conformity

to get our point across,

our genies unstoppered,

refusing to shut up,

like a choir of cicadas in summer.

 

From outside the walls of civilization,

under a muggy sun

crying for attention,

we plan our return

quietly,

a sense of victory

already clamping our hearts.

​

​

***

​

​

Autistic Pride

 

You avert your eyes

because I am different,

unable to see the goodness in me,

the radiance in the flower’s womb.

 

You avert your glance

for convenience,

perfected in indolence,

the quick comfort of non-thinking.

 

My awareness makes you feel

ill at ease –

I am something you don’t understand,

a villain of reason,

an outcast of the mind.

 

You want accessible bliss,

here and now,

the naked heaven of indifference.

And yet I have so much

to give,

if only you could understand.

 

My soul is brimming with love

I cannot express,

it is flushed with sun

masqueraded as darkness.

 

I feel, but in a different way;

I care, but not like you.

There is light in the bosom of silence,

in my introspective exile

far from convention’s code.

 

But you avert your eyes

and go your way

without turning back.

If only you could understand.

​

​

***

​

​

Why Poetry?

 

Because it’s beautiful.

Because it’s sad.

Because it explores sense.

Because it expresses the inexpressible.

Because it defeats the clock.

Because it defeats the grave.

Because man doesn’t live of bread alone.

Because I am a poet.

​

​

***

​

​

Thoughts on Immortality

 

Leaning against a bare tree,

my eyes fixed on the dissolving horizon,

I meditate on immortality,

moonlight seeing off wayworn clouds.

 

Our dust and ashes will be one one day

in the eternal twilight of the burying ground,

fireflies flitting in front of our yellowed photos,

 

but the waves will roll on,

unscathed by the sword of time.

​

​

***

​

​

A Leap to Freedom

 

These are the thoughts that don’t

walk out on their own,

the thoughts you can’t

exorcise,

the leeches of the mind,

feeding on your hopes and fears,

burrowing and lurking

in your soul.

 

These are the thoughts

that keep you awake at night,

with all those stringless visions

full of purple,

and eyeless demons

hitting at random,

at random.

 

Watch out,

but don’t scream.

People are monkey-eared here,

like the judges of Emmett’s murder.

 

Watch out,

but don’t cry.

Rain falling on dreams

doesn’t make them real.

 

Watch out,

but don’t burst into prayer.

It would be like walking

on a carpet of shadows.

The undertaker’s song

is not for you,

nor is the banjo’s twang

in Yellow Springs.

 

Go to a place

with no sound of footfall,

far from the night’s ossuary,

a place spotted with sun,

and find yourself in simplicity,

like Ch’u Yuan,

a leap to freedom.

 

Go.

Leap.

Don’t turn back.

​

​

***

​

​

Good Old Diogenes

 

He knew the trick, the good

old philosopher unbothered

by life and its fuss,

the tub-dweller bankrupting heaven

with a few staves,

he knew the trick.

 

The light of the lamp failed,

the righteous man was not found,

yet among the shards of shattered dreams

he found a clue.

 

Do not seek any more,

do not seek in the kerb-and-gutter

prosaicness of life, its pleasantly

stupid lies and chequered freedom.

 

Reason’s click-clack won’t help,

nor will sham lamps.

The spark in the mind is stronger

than the flash in the jar,

it unleashes images that don’t go out

at the flick of a finger,

pinprick visions and sounds that stick.

 

So he laid down the sword and the lamp

and found the blameless white

he had so long been looking for

among the poor

stepping barefoot into reality,

not the gloved applause

of robed ministers,

their ball-and-chain bugbears.

 

There were no dark flowers

or sieved smiles

in his new private Eden.

He slept with his face

to the East.

​

 

***

​

​

Fragile Theatre

 

When night steps down

and wild flowers recede

into the blessed calm of oblivion

like a hand forsaking desire, -

pallid under the cracked moon

shot with hints of blue,

the world resembles a pastoral

alien to tension of light

and gods drunk

with distillation of thunder.

 

Shakes of leaves abate,

the unattainable perfection of thought

relaxes into the breathless peace

of void of mind,

whose positivity consists

in the negation of the will.

 

Impartial to things of stone

losing their stoniness

in the black stringency of night,

images dwell in the untextured air

like replicas of reality,

and yet the real imitation

is reality,

not the images.

 

At the edge of night,

the fragile theatre of life

crumbles to dust of light

and dark,

embracing each other

like Chinese symbols

uncaged into being.

​

​

***

​

​

Night Delirium

 

Clouds, not the ordinary moon,

manifest and lonely

in the dense scopes of dark,

clouds accompany the polymathic delirium

of this night.

 

 

Aggravated by the black vacuum

of the sky,

pallid perceptions of distances

crumble to blindness

like a tired eye,

and madness of colours

effaces itself

in the intricate evasions

of imagination.

 

The untuned reticences

of desire

transfix the ego

like a fake light,

enhancing its delirium,

while palaver of lips

discovers the sacred spaces

of silence.

 

Cautiously,

like old tune or voice,

the black load of fear

becomes tangible

in the capricious colours

of morning,

in the Phoenician sky

spreading over a reality

uncertain as faith.

 

There is a sense of panic

in the renewal of life.

The outrage of the years

is a swan song,

a remote surprise.

​

​

***

​

​

A Fastidious Vision

 

Spurred by a fastidious vision,

I walk down the off-beat path

of an urgent purpose

at the crossfire of light

and shadow,

 

leaving the business of words

behind me

under the hard stare of possibility

and a babel of papers.

 

The clock taps out

its usual dark message

of death and loneliness,

loneliness and death.

It doesn’t sound like a refrain

any more.

 

It drums on the senses

like a priest,

with the insistence of hope,

hands pining up

in the guise of a last-minute prayer.

 

The vision assures me

there is more to life

than coffined petals

and sealed eyes,

or crossed hands

holding a gilt-edged Bible

with a nice bookmark,

more than jails of shapes

and montage of suns.

 

Should I believe this unfrocked minister

hinting at something grandiose

poking forth meanings

like buds,

tolls released from form and sound?

 

The clock keeps spitting out

its composed rage

over vowels of sorrow

refusing to swell

into fallacy of words,

in and out of trance

like a poet.

 

It doesn’t believe in visions

any more,

or perhaps it just doesn’t care,

oppressed by a sense of columns

and tiredness,

the irksome regularity

of the Swiss dream.

 

The rattling lid in the kitchen

suggests with the ludicrous democracy

of politicians

that time is real after all.

Harsh angles soften

in the twilight,

and the phone is off the hook.

​

​

***

​

​

I Asked

​

 

I asked the panther:

“Why did you do it?”

“I was hungry”,

he answered,

I asked the hyena:

“Why did you do it?”

“I had to feed my cubs”,

he answered.

I asked the snake:

“Why did you do it?”

“I had to fulfil a plan”,

he answered.

I asked man:

“Why did you do it?”

“Out of greed”,

he answered.

​

​

***