it was so simple
you and I
for life
together
yet now
you and I
for life
apart
simple
bonaventure saptel
8 July, 2014
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 6:01 PM UTC
if you fed it to me
water would transfigure into wine
the raisin would burst
back into glorious grape
and the heat within me
would show all the effects
of that very volcano
which obliterated its own island
from all memory
bonaventure saptel
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 8:57 PM UTC
across the seas a whale lets loose
his mournful song in frequencies
so low he can’t be heard by ears
of either you or I
‘neath ocean waves his love responds
sends saddened sounds to calm his fears
and make him sing his odes of joy
just like in like aeons past
they ache across the great expanse
and here I lie, sing arirang
my frequencies rebounding ‘round
my cold and distant beach
bonaventure saptel
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 11:45 AM UTC
“Rice ball!” Her voice, though soft,
works its way through my haze.
“What?” I ask. “Rice ball,” she says petulantly.
“Sorry,” I say, as I envelop her small, cold hand in mine.
We walk almost every night. If she had her way,
it would be twice daily. Perhaps more.
Walking is good for me and she makes sure I go.
This means she must come with me to make sure.
“Good for your diabetes”, she says.
Cold weather makes her shiver.
Cool weather makes her shiver.
Even summer nights out walking necessitates
a long-sleeved shirt to cover her arms.
“Rice ball?” She asks.
I have been silent for longer than usual and my fingers
have loosened since the last time I rice-balled her hand.
I close my hand gently around her curled-up fist.
Squeeze once, so she knows I’m still with her.
Bonaventure Saptel
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 11:43 AM UTC
I try to write a glass of water
but end up thinking that if
I were drowning, the one
to dive in and rescue me
could only be you
I try to write the sun,
like a tanner, beating down
on my nakedness, but before
my skin embraces cancer,
you cover me with shade,
sooth my silt
Bonaventure Saptel
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 11:40 AM UTC
I have been the Buddha
heavy-lidded, bald
refusing the world
access to me
I have been the Buddha
leaning against the tree
of wisdom and duty
and all-surrounding beauty
I have been the Buddha
rejecting the body of me
rejecting the body of you
nearing the body of all
I have been the Buddha
re-entering where I left
tumbling around in a clothes-dryer
ridding myself of samsaric moisture
I have been the Buddha
bereft of kith and kin and kind
soaking my toes
in the enjoyment of nothing
Bonaventure Saptel
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 11:39 AM UTC
the coast
belongs to land
not sea
land consents
to share
not so much
from philanthropy
as from circumstance
the optics
are marvellous
bonaventure saptel
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 11:38 AM UTC
today I caught a leaf
while walking in the park
with your mother and you,
rain falling, weeks after your father
died in Cornwall.
walking through the slight drizzle,
leaves clinging to the front of my shoes,
and yours, and your mother's,
made us look like
foot-soldiers for autumn.
gusts of wind blowing up from the
sheer drops to the Don River
shook more leaves
from the arms of mothertree
which first argued them into life.
the great Niobes of maples
and sumachs and oaks, now weakened,
cling to themselves and shiver.
I resolve to maintain
the memory of their grief.
a breeze shakes loose
a few more leaves -
my hand snakes out
like a wagonmaster's whip
and catches one, to cradle
I put it in the side pocket
of my car door, little knowing
one windy day the following week
it would be gone
as intended
bonaventure Saptel
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 11:37 AM UTC
“that’s a Simpson’s sky,” you say,
pointing to the fluff strewn across the highway sky,
I smile and nod, concentrating on the music
we’re driving to Cornwall in the curb lane,
pointedly avoiding what’s uppermost,
halfway there from Toronto
“driving makes me think,” I think to myself
and turn up the volume on Buddha Bar III
and talking fades into the rearview mirror
black Firebird, racing stripes, eager to pass me
I hold steady – he should know how to use the passing lane!
he bobs and weaves and nips at my fender
it washes in waves over you so palpably
I feel it crash on my shoulder -
your father passed away yesterday
rolling the window down slightly, you light a cigarette
I roll down mine and light up, too
our ritual – one feeding off the other
we’re driving to Cornwall, to family,
to mother, alone now among children
“what will you say to her?” I ask you silently
we’re driving to Cornwall
towards loss, towards hope
with a black Firebird close behind
I move the wheel slightly
to avoid a can of Pepsi rolling in the lane
the rear-view mirror catches the firebird
deliberately swerve to hit it and exlode
its contents in a little puff of vapour -
highway music
bonaventure saptel
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 11:37 AM UTC
did I live in that place?
was there a time when we were joined?
in that photo in my mind
you are caught in motion
you, straining towards me,
arms outstretched,
a cypress, leaning,
waiting
did my heart ever throb
to the staircase of your laugh?
in that place we have abandoned
our children never hear
the sound of their laughter
echo up the hall
their feet never tamp
the grass down in that garden
we had planned,
where now the lilies lie,
lush in some places,
stark in others
no-one lives here now,
in this place, overrun
with hospital smells of Dettol
and creaking floorboards
“I’m sorry to have come here,”
I tell my lagging shadow
the broken sky
lets go and finally cries
down on this
long-abandoned place
Bonaventure Saptel
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 11:35 AM UTC