Poetry for the Heart Previews

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Behind the Mask [1]

 

Blank eyes

behind Greek mask,

eyes staring at hands

petrified

by the beauty of necessity,

composed hands,

hands that beg no more.

 

Pegasus has folded his wings,

quietly,

serene as faith.

The pen lies on the desk

like a smile,

tired, untouched.

 

These tiny hands

are white roses

among black orchids,

splendid outsiders.

 

Pegasus doesn’t need to fly

because he has reached the top.

 

 

The Young Woman and the Sea

 

She was not like the other women.

She loathed idle chatting,

the fetters of family,

rootless as an orphaned star

or a naughty thought kicked out of the mind.

 

After years and years of wandering,

she had put her seven-league boots

on the top shelf of the shoe rack

and had settled down by the sea.

She had slowly forgotten

the anguish of windscreens and winding stairs

and let uncaged time run free in her hut.

 

She had eased into a new identity

crowded with details exiled by the retinas of the masses –

chance encounters of cloud and sunlight,

white processions of gulls

remindful of priests in sultry countries,

and other funny features that so gaze through creation.

 

She stripped bearded clichés of their dullness

and enjoyed the eloquence of the unsaid

and the bidding touch of the invisible,

counterpointing nature with an inner melody

only freaks and angels could hear.

 

Until one day time said:

“We have to go now.

Let’s go to the land

of the uninterrupted sun.”

She put snatches of verse

and scattered colours in her backpack

and followed time,

peacefully walking into the ocean

without looking back.

 

There was a sudden

stroke of wings,

then silence,

and a giggling

in the distance,

far, far away.

 

 

Reflection

 

There is more to dawn

than coffee and a cigarette,

or newspapers

hitting the doorstep –

 

time to pick up

spilled visions,

remembering that life

is on loan,

 

delete the messages

on the answering machine

and breathe.

 

 

When the Tide

 

When the tide of stalwart stars

roving in the boundless

wastelands of night

floods my spirit with furious waving of hope

and sharpness of unexpected magic,

I peep out of my inner sanctum

and dare a smile.

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Love and Fairy Tales Have Their Own Interpretation

 

He sat freezing

in front of the frieze-furnished church,

under a gathering of gargoyles

looking down on him so intensely

they almost toppled out of balance.

 

Wrapped in moth-eaten blankets

smelling of wine and urine,

he absent-mindedly watched happy-clappy people

whiz by under the bloodshot sun

of the dying afternoon,

while weary gulls tracked the postcard sky

slowly darkening into indistinctiveness.

 

The devotees were singing the vespers inside,

keeping each other warm with their breath

and the settled comfort of faith.

He didn’t share their slice of heaven.

He interpreted love

in the nudging of a mangy dog,

a snout on his lap,

an understanding wail or wink,

not in the hankering for hymns

or giant cornucopias of horn.

 

He could see across to the sea

from his niche crosshatched with need,

he could see the last sunbeams

skipping like Josephine Baker

on the bristling water

mirroring shiver of wings.

 

This was the fabric of his fairy tales,

untouched by the filthy magic of ordinary dreams.

He took out some Homebrand biscuits

and shared them with his dog

on the cardboard reading

HOMELESS - PLEASE HELP,

pushing aside the cup

with three and a half dollars in it.

Inside the building,

believers were having a banquet

after the service.

 

 

Night Walk

 

She put time in her pocket

on a drab Sunday evening,

walked down the wharf

following the chilly melody

of the ice-cream van,

shuffling her bare feet

through the weary weeds.

 

She breasted the gusty wind

with a muffled scream

inside,

forcing her lips into a smile

beyond clichés,

a reconciliation of opposites,

categorical.

 

She didn’t go home

that night,

nor ever again,

and the ice-cream van

stopped its music

that night.

 

 

Barter

 

Trading life for money,

feeling tiny moments of happiness

break into blossom

between your fingers,

then escape

into shelters of lies

camouflaged as castles

and wither away

unseen and unrecognized,

like an unredeemed sunset.

Midas’ touch.

​

 

The Other One

 

The other one never whinges

nor does she hunt for ailing images

in frail lines of verse.

 

The other one is not clever

and finds strains of happiness

in a horizon shaded with wings,

in a sky marching headlong towards sunset,

in simple ideals like running out in the street

in search of colours.

 

The other one doesn’t have a fear of edges,

but throws herself into life

ignoring flashing stop-signs,

unbothered by uniforms.

 

The other one is not haunted

by ominous shadows

arching over nasty memories

or by the dark dangling of the scythe.

 

The other one gets all the attention,

avoiding the avidity of silence.

The other one is so terribly human.

The other one has defeated me.

 

 

Ride

 

Wind stirring trees…

Harnessing my horse,

I think of blossoms

tossed up,

falling

on the Way.

 

 

The Call of Spring

 

Shuffling through blossoms,

I drag myself along

untired,

spurred by the smell of spring

in the stirring bosom of the grove,

my sandals in the swag,

my heart everywhere.

 

 

A Tale of Mind and Magic

 

The Mind,

the wandering wayfarer

shrugging to the gods,

didn’t listen to Magic,

who found him begging

at the street’s corner,

close to starvation.

 

Begging for an answer

he couldn’t find

in the straight tracks of thought

scorching the dust of imagination,

leading to the huge pit of dread

full of hurling woes and cellos of moans,

the pit with no stars reflected in it,

no face, void absolute.

 

- Come with me to the land         

of the everlasting sun -,

said Magic.

But the Mind kept his eyes

nailed to the ground,

following flickering shadows

sprinkled with dust.

He didn’t even say “hello”.

 

Magic stroked his hair

gently,

with uncalculated kindness,

and whispered a few words

into the Mind’s ear,

but the Mind kept his eyes

nailed to the ground,

staring at his own tears

falling soundless

on the asphalt of the city,

like a prayer.

 

Magic bent over

to see the Mind’s face,

and recognized herself in his eyes,

only much older.

 

Magic ran away,

shaking off

the cold ashes of her future,

running for her life,

determined to outsmart fate.

 

She didn’t turn back.

The future of the Mind

is uncertain.

 

 

Bury Me Here

 

Bury me here,

by my friend the sea,

and it doesn’t matter

if it is only a plain gravestone

with a plain RIP engraved on it.

I will rest in peace alright.

 

Bury me here,

in the earth I call home.

Don’t shove me in a wall.

It is cold in there,

with no sun, no stars,

no infinity.

 

Bury me here,

under the ancient radiance

of a sky thick with stars,

on the shore of this heart-warming town

slopped by the sea.

 

Bury me here,

and nowhere else -

because this is my home,

and I am weary of travelling.

 

 

If

 

If you can smile

in the face of insults

and pray for your haters

 

If you can learn

without fearing to err,

getting up again like a child

when you stumble

 

If you can see the point of those

who don’t think like you

and learn from them

 

If you can carry sorrow

on your shoulders

and think of it

as food for the soul

 

If you can be righteous

because you believe

it is right to be righteous

and not because you are following

some dark dogmas

 

If you can read all this

without deeming it boring

and turning the page

 

Then

you will attain

real happiness in life,

and everything will start

to make sense.

 

 

Tears of Beauty (Haibun)

​

I often go for a walk alone to find inspiration for my art in nature, the naturally obvious as well as the hidden to the hastening eye.

 

take care, my eyes,

to tear the veil of maya,

let tears of beauty flow

 

No sound but songs of birds breaking a deafening silence, blue so deep it almost bursts, I keep a tiny notebook in my pocket, but the beauty surrounding me is too evasive for words.

 

winged words

veering off into freedom,

preying on the heart

 

Back to a civilization less courteous than the most savage nook of nature, my tallying eye goes astray in a stream of grey, noise benumbing thoughts.

 

greyness all around,

a blooming branch in the heart,

perched on memories

 

 

Words

 

“Perhaps” is a tentative word,

the road-crossing that leaves you

puzzled

amidst a chaos of sounds

and fingers pointing

in all directions.

 

“Tomorrow” is the word

of those who fear

and those who hope,

the key to the building

you are raising

in the present.

 

“Yesterday” is the word

of those who justify,

those who complain

and those who remember,

the token in the pocket.

 

“Never” is the word

of those who have laid down the sword

and closed the door to the future,

the full stop

without a following.

 

“Forever” is the word

of those who believe,

the plain on the other side of the valley,

the lump in the throat

turned into a song of praise.

 

“Love” is the word

of those who have reached the goal,

blown the barrier to the other

to pluck life back

by choice.

 

 

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 Hand

 

A hand

searching in a thorn bush

to find the hand of a friend

it has lost to fate and malice,

a hand not afraid of cuts

because it knows

blood will set it free.

        

The hand dives into the thorns

like a soul diving into the light.

It rips off spikes, pricks and needles

because like Shoyo Roku it knows

that flowers bloom on withered trees

and among thorns,

and that pain is the prelude to joy.

 

Whether the hand found

the other hand

remains unknown,

but there are rumours that a blue bird

from a mysterious land

far, far away

came down to perch

on the bleeding hand

and sang its most beautiful song.

 

 

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.

 

 

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 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.

 

 

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.

 

 

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.

 

 

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.

 

 

No Gravity

 

Rid yourself of gravity.

Fly, child, fly to the land

where the sun is allotted to everyone

and a singing madness

drenches the air.

 

The darkness

has freezing hands here,

the moonflower

refuses to bloom,

the ground is an ossuary.

 

Defeat gravity.

Let your feet off the ground.

There is life on the other side,

unforgivably green meadows,

the gaiety of flowers.

 

It is a place warm with home,

a place where doors can stay open,

a place with the ah-ness of things

all around.

 

Fly, child, fly.

 

 

Quatrains

 

still swing,

still birds,

frost in the field

and in the heart

 

***

 

full moon

behind clouds –

silver lining

even in darkness

 

***

 

Winter night…

Imagining the moon

behind the clouds –

home sickness!

 

***

 

Your love today:

a feather in the wind.

Your love tomorrow:

a feather in a gale.

 

***

 

up in the sky,

barely visible

and yet so strong –

homeward wings

 

***

 

a moon so huge

you could hug it -

clouds creep in,

and you hug yourself

 

***

 

morning sun,

hesitant –

butterflies of light

on my skin

 

***

 

running barefoot

on the ocean’s shore –

my sandals buried

in the sand

 

***

 

sun

through the barred window –

more powerful

than the silver lining

 

***

 

 

Japanese-Style Poetry [2]

 

drizzly

winter morning –

a sparrow

looking for crumbs

in the fog

 

***

 

feet tucked back,

a gull drifts

into the morning fog

 

***

 

six o’clock in the morning –

even the burying ground

is bristling with dawn

 

***

 

leaves

full of moonlight –

gems of the grove

 

***

 

climbing

all the way up

to the top of the mountain

only for that one thing –

moon-gazing!

 

***

 

twigs in the wind -

a cat playing

with wedges of light

 

***

 

outback –

sky all around,

heart warm with home

 

***

 

sun dancing

on mildew and cobwebs –

immortality’s revenge

 

***

 

yes, I have dreams

with broken wings -

they can’t fly,

but they still enjoy

sunbathing

 

***

 

a moon

to fill the sky –

frogs here and there,

hidden in the grass,

looking up

 

***

 

rain

on the spider’s web –

tears held back

 

***

 

moonbeam

dropping into the well –

a mother's goodbye kiss

 

***

 

A mile-long beach

drowned in silence…

Then, out of nowhere,

the full-throated scream of a gull

celebrating the new day.

 

***

 

summer night sky –

I look up

and feel infinite again

 

***

 

6 a.m. –

I open the window

and am showered

with light

and songs

 

***

 

swing

full of blossoms –

still, so still

 

***

 

intoxicated with colours,

I clap my hands

and breathe

 

***

 

 

[1] Inspired by Sylvia Plath’s Edge.

[2] In English, the traditional rules of Japanese poetry are not strictly observed, as the English language is subject to a different syntax.

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