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Of Shadows

 

Of shadows, the ones left behind
which later became nameless nomads, reciting
stories to each pavement they rested over
allowing themselves to be dented, reformed
by each surface that made love to their passing
occasionally hiding in unlikely places
each time a sunrise attempted an ambush.
Pursued by cats and the occasional lunatic,
escaping from one conniving space to another
learning the art of bending, spreading, shielding
they finally gave offsprings one summer night, since then
a city once coloured by a single mood
found moments of grey to balance itself out

Sunrise

 

Sunrise, know that you are alone
the gull that carries you on its wing is a thief
the sea that lets you spread uses you to cleanse its face
the flower that breaks into a bloom uses you as an alarm
and you, slowly emerging from the mountain’s forehead
send luminous gifts to cities who in return
cloud you with smog and the gossip of cars
Sunrise, know that tomorrow will be the same
somewhere someone craves for you to be replaced with rain
somewhere someone craves for you to be the same each day
and while there is no land you haven’t touched
in one distant dark village an old woman knows
that your arrival means
one day less, and one day more

First Love

(another poem that emerged instantaneously from a chat)

Under a rare full moon a train glides
over glistening tracks carrying a song –
percussions and horn, I threw my face
into the night and it was met by yours
At fifteen we looked for love, but
nothing serious that would last, we assesed
it would be real and fast, fingers
melded into answers, shirts that feathered
the wind and then dismembered, sketches
made using eyes that scarcely opened –
and that pulled pause before which
you drew over me freely, like
a child set free in the woods without company
climbing every tree and reciprocating
the surprise of each bird, even
the fireflies not spared by curiosity;
all along I shivered under you, chilled
by the breeze that found space to flow
between you and the moon’s growing glow,
you fell over me like the sea on a promenade
and I lifted you slowly, discovering
that at times time can be formless
and hair belonging to someone locked around you
could be a cushion for breath, also that
the moment thereafter
is a brittle sculpture, withering away
as life gives you other choices

Old Song Now Outdated

Often that night your smoke, unconfined
spoke lucidly to the walls, spoke as ether
to a window that longed to hold you closer,
the crunch of crisps and weightless foam
of cheap beer, each stroll of our paired eyes
plotting a new poster, finding a new face
to laugh at, laughs reciprocated by a music player
embalming the room, the corridor, 
the neighbour’s
lonely dinner, and later, in the car
it kept persisting side a, side b, free
from a future touchscreen and unchained
by the listener’s choice to change midway, allowing
you to rest over me quoting some Persian
saint’s soft poetry, followed by inconsistent hints
to draw nearer, a scarf of azure blue deepened,
a defocused indigo under the dim influence
of the room’s changing mood, your embrace
was a curtain parted, noiseless, a ball of fragrance –
nicotine, young sweat, loosening cotton,
hidden fruit, yesterday’s perfume; the decade
lingered on as a single scent, recently

Reminded of the smell, tiring eyes
falling prey to the night, got wetter
I understand then, why old people said
music in our time was so much better

Pretty Good

(written impromptu in a messenger chat with a friend as an instant reply to a conversation)

Pretty good is nothing. Like a tree
in a paddy field heavy
with weaverbird nests, nothing
special
only a motel for recurring seasons

Pretty good, is only pretty good
a firecracker aspiring to
touch the sky, but failing, its
finale is just a cliched flowering
adding only a spark, not
a flame that becomes a forest fire
not a wind that bends the ocean by desire
only a meagre breeze, just a pretty room,
not a palace with huge doors, pretty good but
not quite there, not even close