When my heart
is like the stony sky
just like a cloud
that can’t possibly contain the snow inside
all it takes for me to be content
is kick a silver stone
into the golden leaves
and sink into the rustle.
Lie on your back
with feet on the floor
and allow the eyes to close
(Now, how you read what follows
is a bit of a challenge)
rest your knees against each other
and draw your mind to your breath
to the present
to this moment.
How does it feel to be in your body?
Become aware of the space between your eyes
and place your index finger on this spot.
Massage it gently for a while
clockwise and anticlockwise
ten times perhaps
Are you still here
or your thoughts have travelled away
and gently bring them back
to the spot between your eyes.
Keep them shut for a minute —
No one wants anything from you in this poem.
The best poems out there
are not mine, of course —
they are those
once raw lumps of clay
kneaded with tears
but meticulously moulded,
until all tears dry out
until all choky chunks
are committedly chipped
patiently chiselled and carved
till all frail feelings are gone,
to only be started from scratch.
At times they look like leftovers
and rarely end on the full stop.
The moon tastes bitter
like a lemon peel
I gaze at it with hollow eyes
it gives the night a trepid feel
It shines so surreptitiously
With stolen rays, and viciously
it’s blazing me tonight.
The morning is chilly,
and quite typically English.
And here’s this couple
concerned with their palm tree,
it won’t survive the winter,
or will it?
They tuck it in gently
to make it feel more like at home,
back where the sun smiles
with rays of light, dazzling, drastic,
raining on its hard leaves,
memories of an eternal summer
painstakingly packed in plastic.
And there I am,
looking at my palm
soft and careless
without even a bloody geranium,
without even a blood-hued mushkato
to keep by my window…
The trees in front of me
hold the sky eagerly
easing out their boughs
towards the clouds
loud crows perch on their crowns
so keen to rule the cosmos
and the parched land beneath it.
The crows’ crowd
just like a novel vessel crew
on its way back from
a fortunate encounter with Moby-Dick,
keep perching consciously –
they look upon the world,
they must know all about it,
its complicated dealings,
its headway to calamity…
for soon, they know,
they’ll be the captains of the cosmos
why would otherwise they’d perch
with gazes fixed on the dry terra beneath
at the ready
why would they so courageously
cover it with coal-like feathers.
When I was little, at mealtime, I’d sit at the corner.
(Table corners, you know, are treacherous traps)
Granny would instantly scold me –
Sit properly, lass – ten men
will pursue you!
no doubt, no guess
This concept I couldn’t quite figure
yet so horrid it was to my little brain
Her fathomless words made me shiver
so I’d sheepishly budge in innocent dread.
When I was little, I’d nibble on knob-ends.
My granny, owly wise as she was,
casted white-haired glances,
scooped the crumbs
for the chicks
and despondently sighed.
Her prophesying words would commence:
The northern winds
will pick you up,
will take you
to foreign fields
and plant you down
in strangers’ grounds
in strangers’ yards to grow your roots.
Oh, granny, I’d plead, touch wood!