"solidity" poems
what is a poet
but a stymied wind
stamping the same soil
seen through polished lens
firing the bugle sound
to reach across some
distant mountain pass
not echo the same
ignite fire
stand strong
find north
refresh
for old paths yield
grey packages
more stale
subterfuge
but honed
solidity is found
in structures
built sound
a new song of old notes
rearranged to yield
perspective
deep
Apr 28, 2018
Apr 28, 2018 at 4:48 PM UTC
They say they love you.
And they care about you.
And that theyre there for you.
And. Thats supposed to feel good. Its supposed to feel nice.
Be nice.
But honestly.
It just makes me feel nervous.
Uneasy.
Apprehension and suspicion grip me.
They shake me.
And yet at the same time, mostly,
I feel apathy.
Nothing
As if your words were as grains of sand to my beach.
As if they were the folds of some drapery
That i depicted in my sketching class.
Singularly, it is so insignificance to me.
And maybe thats where im going wrong. Looking for beauty and solidity in pebbles and ripples.
It all. Means something. Everything. But.
It all means nothing.
Theyre just words.
And whos to say youre even real.
Wait.
Am i even real.
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 2:28 AM UTC
i woke up today to the world
drinking tea and chaos,
as if nothing has changed,
like the ground hasn't collided and
caused the water to rise or the
fact that the government just may not
care about us at all.
the debt we are in could last us a century,
and i'm not talkin' about the government funds,
i'm worried about how luck is never on our side
of the dead green grass but,
we can get through this.
i've never been one for religion, so
when i catch myself saying that i have faith,
it's feels like marbles in my mouth and
the glass is melting to form
a sculpture of how we could be
little or we could be big,
but only time will tell in between the seconds,
and that moment we know which we are,
i'll turn to you and tell you if the faith
is still crashing on my bad days
and i hope you'll stick around if it isn't.
if you don't stay, the earth may quake
close to a 8.5 and it will go down in history of
how difficult it was to piece back
my grounds.
so even if the world stops spinning,
i'll still spin it for you like when you used to pay
for my admission and walk me to my doorstep,
like there was nothing more dangerous
than leaving traces of my footsteps across my dewy
lawn.
i'll spin it like the beer bottle with the foam
settling at the bottom, just so i can see
something fluid move because
sometimes being fluid is more beautiful than being
solid since solidity only has one shape.
so once you tell me that you won't be there to spin my bad days
to good,
i'll leave you alone, like i would the dead
carcass of the deer we hit two days ago in your rusty
volvo but don't be surprised if you ever
wonder if i dream about you
and when the answer is
only every once
in a
while.
Mar 11, 2011
Mar 11, 2011 at 6:08 AM UTC
I see the boy's eyes
puckered
destroyed
he can't grasp
how is this
so?
on balance
tales and
lies do
for the spark of
a yarn's
pull?
or are the child's
ties torn
the parent's
solidity broken
his rock
in a world
shaken?
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
vexed by the solidity of the granular surface
of this rough and tumble dream
i awaken to a forest of sunlight's in a dark world
to my sleep numbed mind
it resembles
the artwork of french revolt era
royal court damsel in distress figurines
dancing with dark-ages statues of plagues death
the starving meet the fed
and they struggle for who leads this dancehall of the marcarbe
burning the ashes of the old worlds dead flames
i look away to find her face
near mine
cut into shadowy sections
i hear within her spoken thoughts
the contortions her life has suffered
at the hands of grey faced strangers known intimately by her
i wish with heart and soul to reach out
and comfort
to remove the burden
the shadows of her face
are reflections of the world as she sees it
she is mesmerized by its ugliness
and she cannot close the door to her past
it lay like her childhoods bedroom
filled with broken teddy bears
and soiled sheets
if i could heal you
if i could even ease your moment
i would trade my living soul to have your smile
you are loved
you are so loved
a lame beggar in the rags of a monk
limps slowly from the effigy of a old world
as it burns with unspoken rages
white smoke from the roof
another chapter of history closed
with too many secrets
too many
but the beggar takes consolation
that she was given a second chance
a dove birthed from flames
here in the dust of the old world
you are loved
you are so loved
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
today i will look for
chocolate and flowers
and find a pound of
belgian dark in my
pantry, and wilted
tulips on the counter.
i will hand write a
poem because it's
just so much better
on paper, and i will
serenade my darling
with bright eyes
on a scholastic field
after the last bell rings,
for at last i can stop
musing on possibilities
and begin to dwell
on solidity.
today i will bring you
a rose, for the petals
and lines and worn
down world-weary
ravines contained
in you; i will bring
you sweet darkness
in a plastic wrapping
for all the sugar laced
in with your hair and
irises, and despite your
fire and your heritage,
i will leave out the heat
of sacred mayan ritual
peppers because together
we'll be warm enough.
finally, i will lean
down close to you and
whisper what i have
not whispered for a
million seconds or more,
because i just haven't
had the opportunity:
Ya llegué, mi querida.
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 2:55 PM UTC
“Solidity of my heart is ever repeating,
Yet yearning for things I'll never know,
The heat of the earth upon my feelings,
The zeal of the flurry gusts upon my dermis,
In the beauty of sunlight falling on water ways,
As you can feel the warmth of the sun as I have,
I’ve confronted my life’s crusades before this melody,
Oh yes yours be a simple cup of water for a diverse life,
It is the brine of the ocean that makes me crave more,
Tears that make my ever repeating heart stutter,
Tear drops warm as the flurry gusts upon my dermis,
Tears abhor the interior sole destruction of my soul,
Tears hasten down my cheeks like rivers,
Tears now smell and taste like the salt of sea brine,
As it leaves a taste of red fervor within my heart?
There will always be peace now way in my soul,
Tears sooth me like my feet upon brine sand stone
As I walk this journey I may stumble and fall,
For that infinite one that has left me now all alone,
I shall ever be fulfilled now in my melody of tears”
By Andrew Guzaldo 10/10/2018 ©
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 6:04 PM UTC
Planks, splintering in solidity
Together twined in tedium
Curving cords of mated metal
Lost in ludicrous loops
Twines of tetanus protrude
Danger danger
Rising flying roaring floating
Above the stillborn trains
Arching acrid aerial arms
Lazy concrete spiral, neighbor snail
Inverse slide with railings
Rumble rumble try and grumble
Jitter in jumpy juxtaposition
Guts of grotesque giants
Flayed flawed under flaming flight
Blink away oblivion
Orange and omnificent, opaque concern
Useful hangnail, table scraps
Rise above
Shocked stillness soon stumbling
Ornamental oasis for the oracles
Unseen unheard untasted unsmelled
Unfeeling unused to understanding
Carry me across
Fly me over
Lift me beyond
Suspend.
Glimpse the unparalleled phenomenon
Ribs of steel, rain has parted
Seeping to the soul
Buzzing through the boards
Immobile, cradle in the wind
Twist
Take off your sunglasses
Be sure to look around as you pass through
Oct 20, 2012
Oct 20, 2012 at 10:30 PM UTC
Here's something to impress you
it's my heart wide open, curious, fearless
approach me, remove the flowers from my hair
take them home and wait for them to die
then tell me about the thoughts that possessed you
in the moments you tried to cry, but couldn't.
There's always something eating away at you, isn't there?
Keep scribbling, croak louder! Wake the town, bring me down.
Take me take me take me down! Build the wall of silence just a little thicker
I want to be sure I'm not nervous, I want to release all solidity and flow
through you as liquid, as sunlight, as starlight as wishes as glances you cast me
that I wasn't supposed to notice, (but did).
I love you is a funny way of starting a sentence,
a sentence is just something we use to get through the day.
****** up communication building blocks burying me deeper
than I can climb and they're crumbling like your emotions when you've
got hallucinations spreading in your spine, breaking you down, back broke,
stomach chalk throat choke nose coke short **** inhale me like you do your smoke.
I taste the same I taste the same.
Yes yes yes yes yes I forgive you, I forgive myself
self-love self-help self-yelp
telepathy wavves like fog in a graveyard
retracing your steps because everything's changing
and you're burning wood
cast your fires on me, I'll be your shallow shadow
and I'll guide myself as far as you'll let me,
don't drag me down
just take me there.
Quickly, before before before.
I start to miss you and I think
I'm just recycling my gatsby complex into something more tangible
than tangerines in the middle of winter
or a wind storm,
trying to eat when there's a lack of corn,
and you can't digest it anyways.
you don't
belong in this
wagon
this wagon
doesn't even exist.
I'm memorizing you in ways like cutting with knives
and thinking about listening but then getting distracted.
Re-birthing in the direction of “i thought you might”
dying downwards and backwards and all the ways you've seen me
because that's what I do when you see me. I die.
It feels better than being alive so **** me killmekillmekillme.
There! Right THERE! That's the separation.
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 10:48 PM UTC
I'm a reformed man
my habit has been cast out
a good woman
showed me how to bring it about
with her understanding ways
she helped me give up the grog
and life is so much better
now that I'm no longer in a grog fog
on the path back to sobriety
her hand guided me
with its never ending
patience and solidity
she is a redemptive angel
in my eyes
she gave me reason
to see a clean sunrise
the grog couldn't stay
in my addled life
cause it had imparted
much too much strife
for the rest of my days
I'll be a reborn man
for a wonderful woman
took hold of my hand
her love and care
showed me how to kick the grog
and she has lead me
out of it's fog
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 10:13 PM UTC
These kinds of stories are hard to find.
I posted up in a bar between
nowhere and a town named Ida
(probably named after some
sweetheart, that old southern name),
and in the characteristic openness
that I can only find during my travels,
I decided to say,
"hey stranger."
It was early in the evening,
he was a traveler too,
but of the trucking sort,
ashen eyes and
pale breathy skin,
we got talking amid
electric neon glow and
the pale blue light
that shown in through the rain.
His name didn't matter,
I won't tell you his name,
but the truckers know thumbers
(there are 5000 or so
across the country
at any given time),
and so he told me of a thumber.
This thumber was in the thunder,
clothes torn and eyes wide,
and with a mind that was,
at that point especially,
oblivious to the solidity
of the dry towel that was
set on the solid truck seat,
and, what a mess this boy was,
so by appearance, I presume,
it was easy to ask,
"what in the hell happened to you?"
It went like this:
the thumber turned those
wide open eyes
(I imagine he was shivering),
and told of how he was
walking, backpack and all,
and of how he smelled a storm
approaching, how when he
saw the treetops bending,
he expected the rain and
pulled a waterproof cover
over his pack just in time,
it started pouring.
This time the thumber,
he said he knew he had to
keep going,
he said he didn't like rolling
dice, no, he said it was a cheat
because if you knew enough
about throwing die the die
land the same, they land
the same enough.
So,
listen, have you ever
walked through heavy rain?
You get dizzy, but
in some deep part of your mind
in the spray, the insurmountable
lukewarmness stealing
a little with each blow,
you lose yourself,
and that's what I imagine
happened to this thumber.
At one point, the thumber
knew ground no more,
that's all he said. He said
he landed one county
over, that's all he said.
And by the jingling
of the die hanging
from the truck's rearview mirror,
one of the truckers laughed
and said ********
as the story of the thumber
came around,
what in all hell else could
you say?
And the thumber wiggled
his head and gave a queer
sneeze.
Against the neon glow
I peered at the trucker,
you can't tell an honest
man by his eyes but
you can tell it by his breath.
I shook my head and said,
"that's a kind of story that's
hard to find."
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 8:00 AM UTC
It is a vastness of cerulean,
A pool of blue which surrounds clouds that are strewn together.
Tumbling, accumulating, towering formations of remarkable depth and awesome beauty.
Billows which blanket and envelop a sphere of life, turning the almost infinite and indefinite blue to grey,
Massed with the heaviness of forthcoming precipitation.
As time turns, and the big blue planet rotates, sunlight is reflected and refracted by particles unseen—painting swelling clouds with pale yellows that bleed into succulent pinks, deep reds, royal indigo, and then
The flowering violet of conceived night.
The sky portrays a huge entity, a formation of solidity and stability.
It does not contain, nor withhold from the terraces and crevices of the Earth’s surface.
It is as close to infinity as the basic human mind can grasp,
The uttermost extension of one’s realm of existence.
To look up at the stars is an annihilation of Ego,
A humbling reminder of one’s relevance,
Of one’s fragmentation of being,
Of one’s essential insignificance in the immortal turning of the deep and everlasting vibration of the Cosmos.
Stars, barely conceivable at times,
Act as portals to the past spilled carelessly across an inky nighttime sky.
These subtle flecks, minute glimmers of incredible explosions, are billions of light-years away
Across the fabric of space and time.
The sky is an incredible portal to those things outside of mortal grasp,
A manifestation of all that is unknown, yet shared by every state of consciousness.
A familiarity and a comforting reminder of eternity that will exist far beyond the human experience. With its undulating formations, precipitation, protection, and sheer exposure,
It is a paradoxical beauty.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 12:44 AM UTC
Quiet child mouth shut
Lives in a lake of solidity
Reborns black in white mantle
Reborns white in black mantle
Sings vague gestures
****** lips
In silence
Hungry clouds
Mysts of fire
Surrounds It's translucent waters
-I'm ash. I'm dust
Two coulored swan
****** lips
Lonely heart.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 6:37 PM UTC
Embodiment.
Its language. Listen.
It’s the dance of our devotion.
Open your emotion.
To honour this temple that houses the spirit of all madness,
wild women, roaring chaos.
As the feminine I release all guilt and shame...
Owning my sexuality. Owning my truth.
And taking back, the body as Mine.
I’m not here to be a pleaser in anyway, how utterly boring.
I take back my power, and I don’t only stand in my power,
but I Stomp the streets of chaos in defeat.. empowered..
i Soar the skies of the infinite eyes... empowered.
By the knowingness that I am free, in my body.
I will not allow, the media, the conditionings that are so stuck in their solidity, without any motion, their consciousness is stagnant and I say **** THAT.
Bring the sacred waters back,
and let the blood of bones wash over you..
as you remember the ancient essence of what is it to be Primitive,
free in the Body.
I’ll dance for you, Naked darling.
I hope you turn the lights on, and see yourself.
In remembrance. Visible.
Free in the Body.
I hope you Rip off the layers when you get angry or sad,
and let the healing of your body, make you deliciously Mad.
Scream, and remember it’s all a dream.
The sizzling fire within you is the source of illuminating,
this essence so bright will **** all your frights.
Simply burning the layers of illusions,
So you may meet yourself as the fractal of fusions
Take it all off,
And see what you are made of.
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 8:56 AM UTC
Where are the prisoners?
Where are the guards?
Watching. Ever watching.
Light floods this cubicle, and
Shadows entangle themselves in my sheets, while
The omnipresent and intangible eye gazes.
Devoid of visibility, only
The gloom confides in me.
The power of perfection entrapped in a hoop.
Our ring encircles the guardian, who
Is invariably stalking. Plagued
Are the confined and deserted lepers.
But what of the locks?
Locks? The tower is our bolt.
The eye will find the madman.
Madness is also our disease,
Guilt triumphs over futile attempts, the
Belief is our ideology.
Indisputable solidity becomes imaginary, while
The goal is communal. We must,
Survive in a personal Panopticon.
Mar 26, 2012
Mar 26, 2012 at 11:31 PM UTC
Never from streets
So I don’t know what it’s like
To fight for every bite
To **** for my steals
To sell dope for hope
Naw I’m not tryin to be mockery
I’m just starting to realize that democracy
Is just plain Hypocrisy
See I’ve never been a fan of the man
White, Black, any of them
I’m so caught up being an individual
That I’ve become delusional
How can one day we’re all about supportin’ each other
And then the next
We’re all vexed
in each other’s faces
Throwing out words about different races and old time cases
Can’t we just erase this?
Times are changing
But what about our foundation
Under the words of our Nation
And all things by His creation
Have we forgotten about that?
I feel like I can’t connect to my neighbor
So honoring them doesn’t fit my favor
To my left to the right
By day by night
I feel like I don’t know ****
About this:
The Election
Personifying my Perfection
Finding a Connection
To myself to us
Can Obama STOP the drama?
Can they end all this trauma?
Of young girls being ***** out of their virginity
All these little boys out here actin’ all hard
Because they forgot about unity
Wishes
Broken dishes
Fame
Not getting’ paid
600 Billion Dollars?
All to support the white collar
Shit…they must be mad ballers
Sittin all high livin fly
Not even worrying about how they gon get by
Half of ‘em don’t even have to try
I want to reach out and hold my brother
Let me be his cover
Thru the brush fires, quakes, shakes, and floods
Not one blood
Our bloods
Coming together in a place of Brotherhood
Shaking every other’s hand
Construct a band
Of Solidity
Of Strength
Of Loyalty
And With this
We cannot foil
And the black oil
Bleeding into our conscious streams
Will find a way to cease
If we increase
Our bond
I just want to be United
And be in different States
I just want to be One Nation, under God, Indivisible
Having the Liberty
To give and have Justice
For all.
God Bless.…I guess…
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 12:15 AM UTC
if there is ever a parallel universe,
i want to exist in serenity with you,
there and forever.
complete utopia,
devoid of all negativity,
my lust for you expands eternally.
i would sacrifice my cohesion,
my solidity,
my utter being,
to simply exist within your comfort.
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 2:00 AM UTC
He filled up the bathtub with ink
and told her it was art. She asked how they
should wash. He shrugged his shoulders, and
then he mumbled something about buckets.
She cordoned off the kitchen,
said he was not allowed in and that she
was conducting experiments
regarding the solidity of limes.
He exploded their duvet so
Feathers pirouetted and flew again.
He said they had found their being.
She said that maybe it was time to leave
He followed her down the street, just
a few steps behind. Watching her hair bounce
upon her shoulders he wondered
what would be the best thing for him to say.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 3:28 PM UTC
I'm a reformed man
my destructive habit has been cast out
a good-hearted woman
showed me how to bring it about
with her understanding ways
she helped me give up the grog
and life is so much better
now that I'm no longer veiled in the grog's fog
on the path back to sobriety
her supportive hand guided me
with its never ending
belief and solidity
she is a redemptive angel
in my eyes
she gave me reason
to see a clean sun rise
the grog couldn't stay
in my confused life
as it had imparted
much too much strife
this day I am a reborn man
a good woman took hold of my hand
her love and care
showed me how to kick the grog
and she has lead me
out of its murky fog
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 11:23 PM UTC
White as a sordid awakening
Hollow, shallow, swallows
Me like an aged cavern
When mother comes in
She is scared to find me
Pale and blue
The window is a hole
Curtains like bedraggled women
Clutch at themselves
She stumbles through a gathering
Of talkative charcoal
And pastel on the floor
Scattered and sallow
Turpentine twists in sweet sashes
Round and round her neck
She calls, wavering already
Diving obliquely through the sea
She reaches for me on the mattress
In the bookshelf,
Behind easels, pallete
Beneath the bridge of the table
A thousand gales of hues blow
Ruffling a thousand shadows
Thousand murmurs decieve her
Into breathing relief.
I see her heart a flickering flame:
Waves of my deathlessness
Shove her around.
Mother, mother, come closer
I call from the lean wooden
Parapet of the canvas
I dance her about in the sky
Stroke the hair, as
She cries, holding my solidity
Thin, bony; her hands shake
Like factory floors
Rancid blooms of a stubborn faith
Scotch her oak-brown skin
And all the walls watch our show
Disintegration occurs
As she searches for me
Kicking clatter and dust around
I a pebble in the pebbles of me
She picks, examines, throws
Picks examines, throws
All while tumbling
Into into into the stench
Of my keen blue decay
Brushstroke, word, scream and plea
She takes all the noise along
Into the beautiful world
Gaunt, I crawl clawing out
I am monster now
And she is painted.
Sep 1, 2023
Sep 1, 2023 at 10:55 AM UTC
Catatonic inscriptions etches through my textile discernment
Insidious cycles of turmoil encased within a festering distress
Uncertainty obscures my comfort into a chaotic complacency
Transforming the subtle movement of thought and bewilderment
Through the re-occurring sequences of paranoia and my uneasy psychosis
Haunting the whole of this psyche and the mental state I've come to fancy
A tell-tale apprehension of merriment and contentment may be a dismal reality
All the while being obsessed with the unfavorable outcomes I conjure within
But, I can't get enough of the disarray that breeds within my frail skull
So distant from what I feel in the ecstasy of my self-selected normality
The meek proposal of sanity has little to hold against these crooked grins
As this chaotic thought process leaves rationality as a vague ideal to null
Expansive introspection has no limit to what is perceived as validity
And, to be enveloped in the ambiguity and delusion of fact is so enticing
We all know that we've all come to recognize the fabrication of our own truth
The futile attempts to obtain an immaculate conviction in pure solidity
Is so wondrously perfunctory and constant as the life that i'm living
That I dread the day of departure from this hysteric observance of aging youth
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 10:58 PM UTC
I'm asking questions like im socrates
and of course the answers aren't a shock to me
I'm asking for solidity
but not a single thing in this life has rigidity
It all don't mean nil to me, it's foolish to be
caught up in this world you'll see
the world is dying, all will pass away, we have not forever, we may not have a day
we are just a wisp, a vapor, the fading sound of a once struck chord
even i am only shattered metaphors
pieces of paper fluttering and torn
i hear their inky voices as they mutter and they mourn
there is near to nothing left of me anymore
i am only broken bits of poetry
smashed and spit on paper
I am only sickly similes, a sadly spoken satire
like wandering ghosts of memories and meaningless dreams
like meaningless hopes and desperate screams it seems
like things have taken a turn for the worse
and i may soon end up
in a homemade handwritten paper hearse
strangled by my verses
flayed alive by words then
left to wander wordless
my meaningless words have begun to haunt me, daunt me, it's daunting
and this is not me
I am not some needy scrap of paper waiting to be filled
I am a notebook half-filled with half-finished lines of half-realities
I am a dying man screaming at the top of my lungs as they are shattering
as i am torn apart by the desires of my own heart
It falls apart as i metaphysically massacre me
I blatantly
snip apart the seams of sanity and reality-what little few are left in me
i **** with words that flow from my pen
and then
I write for them revival
but my pen is low on ink and i think it's suicidal
It'll be a kamikaze even if i choose denial
and i don't know much but i know it's a vicious cycle
I dont know when it will choose to think
it's own end into existence
will it be, maybe
perfectly timed to persuade me,maybe
illogically, with all reason simply lost to me
that it chose to spit a little extra blood
a little extra ink
that it chose to save me from the next line i might make
just think, it might be more than i could take
it might break me, make me, mistakenly
the master of my own fate
This is death by poetry
rebirth by verse
If i write poetry again, will it be reversed?
not a revolution or evolution but
humanity
in words
this
is death by poetry
Mar 8, 2012
Mar 8, 2012 at 6:54 PM UTC
looking down
at the grains of
sand
encrusted upon
my tide washed feet
i pause to ponder
how much older,
and far better traveled
these tiny chips of calcified
life and mountain grit must be...
now i have been to
many places....
L.A. Paris, London,
Dunedin, Melbourne
Hong Kong, Mooloolaba
to name but a few...
but these little bits of
seadust,
have lived lives
and lost,
have travelled
to and fro....
becoming ever...
smaller as they went....
shedding of themselves
to the greater entity.
becoming
one speck among......
bazillions
taken beyond their lives
of solidity by swirling
currents
only to end up as sand
upon my toes.
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 7:02 AM UTC
Trickle,
You are picturesque abstract
Elongating droplet stroke
Smiling on surfaces
Fondling oxidized tissue
Making love to ozone
From afar
Trickle
I am painfully patient
deliberate witness
to your
becoming
A river
Breaking my o-zone of comfort
Vapor distorting solidity
Fall back unto me
Bring back the salt
that I squandered
But don’t
Deliver this clarity
razor-sharp
Through the fabric of irises
So impossibly deep
In the flesh of my
Indigo sky
Embedding eternally
That state-shifting
Thought foreign body
Lost in the cobwebs
Of amber-caught impulses
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 11:16 AM UTC
Musk. Wind
whispers mysteries in the form of it;
it thickens thin air until it turns black,
black enough to
hush. Wind,
being black, absorbs your thoughts,
makes violent curls of them; thickens,
thickens thin air until it
transmogrifies
into pages and pages
stained black with disaster-
as if a hurricane crumpled
those could-have been white aeroplanes, potential
papered to fly, and flung them
into the pit of your mind to
sink
deeper
and
deeper
and
deeper
until
your poems were written and the casualties numbered:
each line a suicide of a thought that could have been,
each syllable ink-stained and bloodied black
by artistic integrity, or madness: the same.
This wind is your hair.
This wind is your territory.
Not mine. Never could I have met you here,
in this place
of your solitary being: where real poets exist.
I am not a hurricane: and I am not your disaster.
I have learnt and re-learnt how useless it is to define you
in terms of myself; how useless it is to define you
at all. A rationalist like me can never truly understand
what it is to be part of your endlessness, the sheer
mountainous immensity that constitutes your thrill.
Yes,
your hair fascinates me as much as any ancient,
spiralling, far-away Andromeda- but the fact
that even now, I've already tried to limit you
with words
shows the absoluteness, the solidity,
the density
of my misunderstanding of your... your...
And
real poets know that rationalists are fools.
You know
I am a fool.
I write these meagre verses
with unreachably cold computer technologies
thinking
that these words could somehow save us. Yet,
simultaneously,
I am some drunken nuisance knocking
vehemently
at your door, who turns and strolls
away
right before you finally
answer.
I am a fool
going home and seeing clouds
in the darkness. It is my first
time seeing them in the sky. First
time in nearly a month.
The moon illuminates the clouds,
and so do
the towers of highway lights in the middle of two roads.
One road leads forward, the other backwards.
As the car passes the towers,
the two lamps attached to each of their heads glow.
They streak on as the car speeds on homewards.
They leave fading tails like shooting stars, except they do not travel.
They are stagnant mind lights, peripheral memories; unmythical,
artificial.
They are not like you.
When I pass you,
You....
You...
You.
Please,
never believe-
for even a whisper of musk
to yourself;
for even a black hush,
to yourself;
for even one sliver, one strand
of Andromeda hair, falling
towards yourself-
that
Grahamstown
didn't mean anything less than Eternity to me.
It does.
I am not a hurricane. I am not your disaster.
You are far too much of yourself
for me to be even a zephyr
to you.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC