"corridors" poems
I wrote this for you a long time ago on a coffee stained napkin, after you left me, full of love, lingering in a cafe.
"For you, in all your follies and faults and the way they make you so perfect for me.
For you, in the moments that linger in the vehemently insignificant corners and corridors of things, as if drifted of their own grandure.
For you, for the words that spill to the floor and the brilliant way you understand the deafening silence that follows.
For you, for your supernovas and clever shades, for your daylight smiles and nighttime skins.
For you, for your familiarity and the impossible truths that stand as martyrs to say that I have loved you before.
For you, despite the treachery and quiet sinister fun of the world.
For you, for making me so terribly scared of dying."
Yet here I am, in your wake, so full of so many thoughts and demons. Know that I have died, that I have loved and lost with equal measure.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 12:23 AM UTC
Ilion gray
poet extraordinary
is away
learning the codes hidden in raindrops
no reason for surprise;
for the mountains of Brooklyn, the Manhattan caverns of Sunhenge^, corridors of narrow focus for trapping the declining sun rays,
neither high enough, narrow blinding,
to keep a good man from doing good things that life provides as opportunities
to do the right thing
he muses that it took five years for the other poets to understand our
poem-dreams;
avant-garde he says,
but I laugh,
never felt more misunderstood
and reply take care, be
en garde!
no matter for he is learning a new language,
the codes hidden in raindrops in a land of wheat
once called Indian Territory and eager
await his return so we may
walk along the Brooklyn shoreline,
beginning from under the Brooklyn Bridge
where Washington’s men escaped a British trap
and he can decode for me the whispery thunderous noises of
NY
showers that come up so sudden, so roughened, but right now,
the seductive sun blinks in Manhattan windowed towers reflecting back on to our East River as golden blinks of nature
We will walk lost in the absorption of our
different commonalities, holding the hands of
his young son, and my Wendy,
both of them equal in possession of round saucer eyes
that give us poems
He calls me me friend,
I call him brother, teacher, master, better than the best,
well recalling a late night message that bred
a five year conversation ongoing
not everything need be coded
what you read here
it is not coded,
for the raindrops come clear and clean
and the poems land on our tongues
bounce on the foreheads and eyes of the babes, all stored and saved for the future blessings spoken in a single tongue
7/18/18
^https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manhattanhenge
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 10:41 PM UTC
She looks in the mirror
At the age on her face
"I wonder what he thinks
of me this way?"
She considers her weight
and the pores on her skin
She thinks out loud
"I don't deserve him."
She picks apart
the woman he loves
Separating her worth
from all that she does
He looks in her eyes
and caresses her face
He sees it glowing with love
and full of grace
The lines on her face
he views with pride
Recounting the victories
each time they've been tried
The weight that she carries
is that of a mom
Nothing's too heavy
She just marches on
These bodies will perish
and mirrors offer no truth
True love abides
beyond the corridors of youth
No, she doesn't deserve me
Perhaps God can see
Conceivably, one day
I'll be as worthy as she
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 9:21 AM UTC
Sweet is the village home
With the overhanging trees
With the open well on the east
With the kitchen adjacent to the well..
The coconut trees giving shade
The Jack fruit and the mango trees
Decorating the land beside
The peacocks roosting on the trees
The red Mangalore tiles
Giving protection from the sun and the rain
The green chillies and the bananas
The drumstick tree and the climbers
Ginger and Curry leaf tree
The Coccinia and the Turkey berry
Plants and climbers
Giving all the vegetables in-house
The long verandahs
The corridors
The wooden stairs
The large dining hall
It is not just a home
But a life itself
With nostalgic memories
Which will never die at all...
The house that has seen
Various happy moments
Various sad events
Which has seen birth and death
It is not just a home
But a life itself
With nostalgic memories
Which will never die at all.....
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 2:19 PM UTC
From the warmth of her womb
to a wooden coffin
the cloth of her **** laid lifeless
Gone to soon, gone too soon
The pain was more than she could bare
after losing her only son
to the rough street of Chicago
where the kingpin rules
and the prosecutes parade
the dark corridors in dark suits
It's a mother worse nightmare,
when the law enforcements,
is train to **** and asked question after.
In fear of their lives,
however, two wrongs,
cannot equal to right.
Our judicial system defenses team toss
them back to the mean street
with only criminals intents on their minds
another careless proceeding gone wrong.
so, here I am
back to the crime scene
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 9:11 AM UTC
I laid my body on the tall grass.
She wrapped me in a rustle of green.
I closed my eyes in the shadow of a tall pine,
curling up so the pain wouldn’t spill beyond my heart.
Consciousness sinks into nothingness.
I feel the particles of my “self”
breaking into a million molecules.
I flow through the grass and seep into the earth.
Now my body puts down roots,
nestling against the pine that weeps with resin.
My emotions pass through the trunk of the tree.
The thread of memories is a long earthworm,
crawling through the empty
corridors where once blood pulsed.
White bones remain still,
slowly dissolving into the vessel of eternal life:
Earth, water, air, lost particles of light,
and my longing for the final union.
Doubts hollow a chamber,
soft and warm – my new home.
When my dream ends,
I will dwell in it.
Now I am the pine.
My needles, bark, and resin
radiate invisible light
for this space, for this world.
Yes, I was once human.
Aug 17, 2025
Aug 17, 2025 at 8:16 PM UTC
Olives, figs, dates and mastic, wyrd or oracles, fates and magic, wars and loves and all that’s tragic.
A Father’s lust, an Uncle’s hate, a puzzling labyrinth, through the gate,
A Cretan born, another covered, a starry symbol, placed in the cupboard,
Special place, where heroes meet him, mindless creature, murderous ******
South in winter, man below with a bull above, placed in the heavens by two father's love,
A strangeness here, the seat of trade, in forbidden tryst, a beast was made,
Man of blood, tortured soul, stalks the maze, that stalks the pole,
"Stranger still, this wild pattern, revolving Seventh, Circle of Saturn?"
Unholy corridors made of granites, trace out the movements of the planets!
Life of horror, a soul of pain, terrorizing, with no refrain,
Smells their fear, scents of sin, raging actions, threshing men;
“They call me Moloch! They call me Baal! Tear your body, festoon my hall!”
In trepidation, to gatekeeper sent, a ****** start, for your punishment;
“I collect the hearts, I eat the eyes, I eat the liver, before he dies!”
Olives, figs, dates and mastic, wyrd or oracles, fates and magic, life and death and all that’s tragic.
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 11:48 PM UTC
Is it the words whispered
in secret corridors
i love you
are they proclaimed boldly
from roof tops
I LOVE YOU
Or maybe love
sounds like laughter
giggles shared only between two
what if love has no noise
its beauty is similar to a sunset
seen and felt
but never heard
Dec 26, 2018
Dec 26, 2018 at 12:10 PM UTC
An odor has remained among the sugarcane:
a mixture of blood and body, a penetrating
petal that brings nausea.
Between the coconut palms the graves are full
of ruined bones, of speechless death-rattles.
The delicate dictator is talking
with top hats, gold braid, and collars.
The tiny palace gleams like a watch
and the rapid laughs with gloves on
cross the corridors at times
and join the dead voices
and the blue mouths freshly buried.
The weeping cannot be seen, like a plant
whose seeds fall endlessly on the earth,
whose large blind leaves grow even without light.
Hatred has grown scale on scale,
blow on blow, in the ghastly water of the swamp,
with a snout full of ooze and silence
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What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whit-
man, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees
with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images,
I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of
your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole fam-
ilies shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives
in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you,
Garcнa Lorca, what were you doing down by the
watermelons?
I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old
grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator
and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed
the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my
Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of
cans following you, and followed in my imagination
by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in
our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every
frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors
close in an hour. Which way does your beard point
tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the
supermarket and feel absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets?
The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses,
we'll both be lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming ofthe lost America of love
past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent
cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-
teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit
poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank
and stood watching the boat disappear on the black
waters of Lethe?
Berkeley 1955
8.4k
Twelve o’clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
Half-past one,
The street lamp sputtered,
The street lamp muttered,
The street lamp said, ‘Regard that woman
Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin.’
The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.
Half-past two,
The street lamp said,
‘Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter.’
So the hand of a child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child’s eye.
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.
Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.
The lamp hummed:
‘Regard the moon,
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smoothes the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and old Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain.’
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars.’
The lamp said,
‘Four o’clock,
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair,
Mount.
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life.’
The last twist of the knife.
8.2k
.
How do we mend wavering pedestals...
When the ground beneath is parched dry.
Stemming off loose foundations that time had weathered wry.
How do we mend broken gazes...
When watchful eyes which were meant to see,
are blinded by the onslaught of half-truths and fallacy.
How do we mend burnt bridges...
When we never look back to trace heavy missteps.
We fail to admit to consciously springing obvious traps.
How do I mend ailing hearts...
When familiar corridors seem warped to a bend.
When my own is struggling and perpetually on the mend.
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 3:59 PM UTC
Won't you dare
Step in the storm?
Won't you dare
Cup the hand of fate in yours?
Lead on the way
Amidst corridors of blazing sands
Won't you let the friction carve?
Your hands, your sight and heart?
Brushing against your face,
Peeling off your gentle fate
My friend; won't you dare?
And step in the roaring lair?
For ashes and dust
Is this greyish world
So burn the flame
And light in fumes
Hear the tapping of your feet
And feel your sole melt away
On strange wooden lands
Sprinkled with blazing sand
Catch the pebbles
Struck at you
Let it burden till you grieve,
Or build the castle of your dream
Set ablaze, set ablaze
Set yourself ablaze;
Let yourself combust and scarred
And become the blazing star
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 11:21 AM UTC
Lone star walking roads,
crowbar in hand
cowgirl I'll die for,
I died and I died again,
fluent in 6 country's,
passports; pardons
no cargo,
but luggage is a stainless steel flask,
half full,
half way,
to the moon
if you asked me?
Cadillacs in space,
expensive taste
that's masked with
— the cheap stuff,
inspired souls,
they walk,
and this forsaken path,
they'll never make hell a ***** deed or two from heaven,
counterparts
we're equals,
we're lost
they're my colleagues,
a scandal from remembrance,
remember we followed rules?
no response
****
there's a shift
in the rubix cube,
a memo from the warden,
no weapons in the visit room,
coordinating sin,
a taste of gin
before the see you soons,
world was much warm before stone replaced the sand dunes,
scoff at the elixir,
cordially
she casts stones,
******* of a demon crossing ponds is all the child knows,
tales of the fishermen,
who heard it through the corridors,
all and all departed,
with a fear of the other gods,
strictly prohibited,
a swig of the forbidden fruit,
who are you to judge me,
When Your Son Is Not Of Holy Proof!
wedded to a mortal said your honor,
absent i do's,
abstinence is bliss
and your crime ascends civilian law,
guilty -- you're filthy,
your son will never know your soul,
I know my role and play it well,
Your god never admits he's wrong,
so why would I?
— a baby cried,
I'm present for my son's birth,
and leave before an open eye the practice of a perfect curse.
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 8:13 AM UTC
The bedroom walls don the shadows of the falling snowflakes
Through the window boughs swing heavy with crystals
Shimmering in the muted light of the crescented moon
Tracks of invisible animals impressed into that white
A wind whistling through empty corridors of an abandoned house
With a chandelier twisting in the ecstatic breeze
Flurries whipping frantically through that chilled air
Winter
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 11:23 PM UTC
*Blazing stars across the sky
Night’s come alive with celebrations
Gorgeous display across the dark
So many things do fade away
But sheer brilliance gives hope
Many dark corridors will be lit up
The constellations know the secret*
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 9:36 AM UTC
Oh! mother where are the snow falls of yester years?
Where are the great king Ashoka and the world master Sankaracharya?
Where is the ujjayani that was immersed in the literary effluence of
The great dramatist Kalidasa?
Where is the light that shone from the piercing eyes of the warrior
Queen Rudrama Devi and the Goddess Durga?
Where are the snow falls of yester years?
Where is the buzzing sound of the bees that came from the corridors
Of the great king Shajahan? Where are the echoing sounds of the war monger
The sword Thikkana?Where is the gallooping white horse climbed by the unconquerable warrior queen of Jhansi Lakshmi Bai?
Where are the snow falls of yester years?
Where is the fire that emanated from the broad shoulders of
The inimitable king and connoisseur of art, Sree Krishna devaraya?
What happened to the living breaths of Balachandra, the young warrior
And brahmanaya, The great warrior and social reformer?
Where are the snow falls of yester years?
Where are the kings, the great poets, the warriors, the chaste queens?
Where have they gone?
Where are the foot prints of the golden wings of time that fanned and fled?
Oh! Mother, Where are the snow falls of yester years? Where are the snow falls of yester years?
Sep 25, 2011
Sep 25, 2011 at 1:10 PM UTC
a) i am the mortar incurring blow after blow
from the abrasive quality of your negligence.
no, i am herb between pestle and mortar
the full realization of 'rock and a hard place'
b) i am the mortar between each brick you lay,
in blue collar glory, or rock star slumming,
to bind shaky corridors of past serenity
and bear indiscretions on my limestone shoulders
c) i am the mortar you fire before crawling under covers
for inexpensive *** and trashier beer
by a lake on a camping trip where tents trump love
like the queen of spades in a hand of hearts
d) in fact, these are false, merely possibilities --
actuality: you were never enough
to make me spew homonyms in metaphor
because you were nothing like them,
always appearing changed but monotonous in meaning,
and if you're so into contraposition,
are we not but names for each other?
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 3:28 AM UTC
i quake to my bones
to my very core
i shudder and crumble
ashes to ashes
dust to dust
overwhelmed,
consumed
filled to the brim
the very thought of me
Screams you
the slinking corridors hide my addictions,
afflictions,
illusions, distractions,
my convictions
the mirrors reflect nothing
i am weightless, drifting
ashes to ashes, dust to dust
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 2:15 AM UTC
My complex brain keeps me thinking deeply
For hours it keeps spitting **** perpetually.
I think outside the box and write always,
look at things in 3D and cross the streets sideways.
This is the universe at work in another way.
Maybe I'm being rewarded, if I may,
For the countless hours put into thinking
About a fraction of mankind's problems.
And the thoughts about seeking answers to questions,
That will someday bring a resolution to our problems,
For the universal betterment and the good of mankind.
Maybe I'm a product of some social and scientific
Or intellectual experiments or the combination of all three.
All that was yesterday, when I was something else
If I was ever made a saint then for my past good deeds,
I have no recollection of what transpired down those dark Corridors of the part of the multiverse I came from.
So, if I ever did some positive things in my past life,
Kudos to that mass or ball of energy I once was.
Today, maybe I'm just one idiot with a laptop
Who has time to write things some people may deem
obnoxious, senseless and otherwise incomprehensible?
Maybe I'm an outlet for deep thoughts
And a vessel of wisdom for some people.
Through perseverance and the little time, I have on hand,
I have helped save lotta folks some precious time
In coming to acknowledge the reality of our time.
Thus, making it easier for them to see,
That things are messed up and that despite this,
hope looms!
Mar 10, 2018
Mar 10, 2018 at 9:31 PM UTC
she sat in the center of her home
becoming the heart of the halls
the blood drifting in and out of
the corridors,
the clot that stood still in the living room
unable to move to the next destination
stuck staring at the dusty painting
that haunted her tendency
to fix that which does not
need fixing,
humming the delicate tune
which ascended into the aorta
of her kitchen,
all the way
to the apex of her attic
and finally folding into itself
like the towels in her
chamber of cabinets,
before unraveling out
through the long vein
of her chimney,
the housewife who
makes a living
with sharpened bread knives
and turning scones into
christmas trees,
who croons ancient love songs
in her infinite spare time,
and i wonder as i
stare at her
from underneath my book
of russian poetry,
how she holds up
when the front door bursts opens
and nature sings
a solo to her heart.
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 5:31 PM UTC
One year ago this month.
I fell off a cliff.
For the first time falling,
I thought I was flying.
In February I hit the ground.
My emotions splattered all around.
I felt weak and worthless.
I’d never felt more alone.
In March, I moved on.
I got up, and I pushed myself.
Away from him, away from the past,
And away from myself.
April brought rain.
I always remember rain.
Getting washed away.
In that April rain.
May brought beauty.
And with beauty came my camera.
I still have pictures of that first day,
In the sunshine of May.
June was too much like a puzzle.
No school, floating with nothing to do,
But pick up the pieces,
And start over.
July brought me back.
I finally found myself in those corridors,
Pushing myself through fears upon fears.
I stopped hiding in July.
August brought hope.
For a new day, a new me.
With support from my friends,
I pushed and tried to win.
September brought a new age.
It shouldn’t have changed me but it did.
I’m still the youngest of all of us.
Why shouldn’t I feel like a kid?
October brought me only sadness,
Missing my friends from July.
All their birthdays were there in the autumn madness.
Why’d I have to say goodbye?
November was a month of silence.
A break from the stress of my life.
But even though it was silent,
I wouldn’t have ever gone back for more.
December has brought a new beginning.
Confidence, and strength through myself.
I’m now saying goodbye and I’m happy,
That 2017 is now gone.
Jan 5, 2018
Jan 5, 2018 at 11:23 AM UTC
***She sits in shadows
Displaced by life
Forgotten by self
Dejected by all those Crows that fly Northwards
A Sparrow hawk calls
She remembers him but utters nothing
that is desirable
He flies onwards
Never to look upon her
Dark princess
Of lower grounds
She holds fast and keeps council with demons
Demons who roam the corridors of her soul
Pulling the cloak over her nakedness
as the stage illuminates the way
An actress of sorts
Another west end show
A vagabond who plays her hero
Darkness falls from her
And all who are touched by her fateful hand
Will linger no more in sun drenched meadows
Too bright to see
Too good to believe
Her fearfulness becomes her
Her innocence laid bare upon a slab of false regret
Be he gone from her mind
She may be free
For what lingers a princess in darkness
Than a love betrayed
The darkened hour may find its way into any heart
The broken man
Can do as he tries
But stumbles when he beholds her stare.***
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 4:42 PM UTC
If I close my eyes and think of you
I can smell your scent
From a mere two days ago
The flutter in my heart follows
If I close my eyes and think of my father
I can smell the joints
That I identified aged 10
I try not to *****
If I close my eyes and think of my best friend
I can smell her perfume and washing powder
It makes me smile
And want a hug
If I close my eyes and think of my father
I can smell the stale beer
A middle of the night smell
It meant 'don't leave your room'
If I close my eyes and think of my mum
I smell safety and comfort
Strength and gravity
The balance keeps me strong
If I close my eyes and think of my father
I can smell the stale sweat
The cruel words of abuse
The hatred inside myself
If I close my eyes and think of my sister
I smell vanilla and style
Fashion and creativity
Sullen kindness
If I close my eyes and think of my father
I can smell the cold of the room
With its broken window in the arctic temperatures
The fire unlit because the marijuana needed somewhere to grow
If I close my eyes and think of school
I smell the comforting sawdust
The corridors familiar
The classrooms like home
If I close my eyes and think of my father
Not having friends round to tea- because.
16 not 6- you can't buy my trust
16 not 46- don't want prayer flags for my birthday
If I close my eyes and think of home
I smell the damp washing hanging up
Every squeaky floorboard
Every drip, clank, comforting noise
If I close my eyes and think of my father
I smell the power he loved to have
How I haven't seen him in three years
The fear that still remains
If I close my eyes and think of myself
I smell nothing
Hear and see nothing
At that is what scares me the most.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 6:48 PM UTC