the hills
like poets put on
purple thought against
the

magnificent clamor of
                                    day
tortured
in gold,which presently

crumpled
collapses
exhaling a red soul into the dark

so
duneyed master
enter
the sweet gates

                               of my heart and
take
the
rose,

which perfect
is
With killing hands

Though authors are a dreadful clan
To be avoided if you can,
I'd like to meet the Indian,
M. Anantanarayanan.

I picture him as short and tan.
We'd meet, perhaps, in Hindustan.
I'd say, with admirable elan ,
"Ah, Anantanarayanan --

I've heard of you. The Times once ran
A notice on your novel, an
Unusual tale of God and Man."
And Anantanarayanan

Would seat me on a lush divan
And read his name -- that sumptuous span
Of 'a's and 'n's more lovely than
"In Xanadu did Kubla Khan" --

Aloud to me all day. I plan
Henceforth to be an ardent fan
of Anantanarayanan --
M. Anantanarayanan.

I try to write
But my words
Stumble and trip
Drunk within my brain
The stairway to my pen
So steep and treacherous
That they dare not tumble down them
Lest they be broken and ruined by the fall
So they stay deep within the den of my brain
In inebriated silence
While my muse
Drinks a bottle of wine

He wasn't very beautiful, no.
Nothing extraordinary.
But he was everything I was looking for.
Car rides from school have been imprinted in my memory like hands in wet stone.
His cigarettes filling up my lungs with smoke and leaving my brain rushing and wild.
The way he looked at me, I couldn't even tell you.
I never had anyone look at me that way and haven't since.
It wasn't as dreamy and beautiful as I might make it seem,
Still remembering it with my former teenaged mind,
I spent most of my time wanting him to **** me in the cleaning closet upstairs at our after school job,
Or at least touch me, nervously.
But that never happened.
I did however find myself touching him.
Reaching into his soul and pulling him out until he couldn't hide from me anymore.
I made myself his home and stored his thoughts, desires and pains in myself,
Like his suicidal tendencies,
His misunderstandings and anger,
His love for my friend, Katie.
Different than ours.
I felt heartbroken,
Yet so happy as long he was,
And while it seemed unfair
I finally passed infatuation and found love in its purest form,
No matter how unfair it was.

-after **

Everything great on earth
begins as something small.
Lao Tzu

I

Older than China
I am the memory of trees;
sip the earth from me.

I remember mist,
sunlight climbing the steep hills
leaf by silent leaf.

When I was a seed
I was drawn to a raindrop:
we made a strange brew.

Take me in silence;
I am all of the autumn,
cup me in your hands.

Warm in your fingers;
I am moments of quiet in
long conversations.

More than a prayer
on the road with the pilgrims,
by windows in rain.

II

And if you see yourself here,
hand lifting the cup,
imagine these are your leaves:

no curse this winter, then spring,
three months of sadness,
you'll see its shadows haunting.

The house will feel empty, but
then there is passion,
cups left on the floor. Sunlight.


Tony Curtis, Three Songs of Home, The Dedalus Press, Dublin, 1998

*the poem was posted with author's permission

You stab me in the back with a knife,
and I apologize for bleeding on it.

Your eyes are telling a tale
Everywhere you go

Your steps are making rhythms
silent and slow

Your head was never high
Nor does your voice

Every tremble of your hands
Every quiver on your lips
I know.

I once lived by a river
That flowed with a seducing call
Drawing me daily to it's bed
And Liberating me in it's waves.

I miss my raging river
That use to splash all over me
Bringing joy and excitement
To my otherwise lonely days.**

©Tina Thompson