do you know what

liminal
means?

liminal comes from latin
limen
meaning threshold

a place of entering or
of beginning

a fine line between the was
and will

a place of transition
waiting
unknowing

and i suppose you could say
this is liminal

this poem

this life

this concept of eternal
that we seem to attribute
to our (sadly impermanent) art

this body of mine
is so very liminal

this voice that i roll around on my tongue
is liminal

this world itself,
a blink compared to infinity
can only be said to be
a threshhold
to somewhere else

h.f.m.

Labor with what zeal we will,
Something still remains undone,
Something uncompleted still
Waits the rising of the sun.

By the bedside, on the stair,
At the threshhold, near the gates,
With its menace or its prayer,
Like a medicant it waits;

Waits, and will not go away;
Waits, and will not be gainsaid;
By the cares of yesterday
Each to-day is heavier made;

Till at length the burden seems
Greater than our strength can bear,
Heavy as the weight of dreams
Pressing on us everywhere.

And we stand from day to day,
Like the dwarfs of times gone by,
Who, as Northern legends say,
On their shoulders held the sky.

Caught on the threshold
             Of freedom and fire
                        Holding to the hinges
                                Of not yet fallen plans
                                      Please don’t let the sea wash away
                                             Everything I have left to say
                                                   Looking for the sun
                                                        On a moonless night
                                                           ­  Seeing the stars
                                                           ­     And knowing mine’s there
                                                           ­        Separated by the fear
                                                            ­          That morning won’t come
                                                            ­       Balancing on broken ground
                                                          ­      Glancing back without a sound
                                                           ­  It’s a little hazy up the way
                                                        But sand and stone don’t stop
                                                  My unfolding, unwinding starlit path
                                             The steps back are easier than forward
                                      Steely heart and day-made dreams
                                  Of gold and tarnished silver
                              Help to hope my star like step-stones
                                   Will give me the first stride
                                                                                                                                        Beyond the celestial doorway

I'm standing in the crosshairs
Of a future not yet broken
From the chain linked anchor
Sinking
Into the deepening depths
Of inspiration
Yet I'm as blank as tomorrow's paper
Before time presses in the letters

I am buried deep
Beneath the crossroads
Cursed to stand apart
From those with direction
Tasked to confuse
The faltering straggler
By adding doubts to their
Already overflowing collection

I am weary of this curse
I wear ...
Of overlapping cross-purposes
Where I feel my way
In total darkness
Along the walls
Of an ever narrowing tunnel
Squeezing me
Into a panic state....
Attempting
To force me to confess

That I crossed the line
Once upon a time
Long before
The first second did exist
So my passing by
Had no measure
Had no limits
Had no value
Placed by limitàtions
Needed...
For the formation
Of any creation

So in a sense I am
THE CROSSING GUARD
Disallowing
Any and all who seek
A way of crossing
By standing fast
Between
The future and the past

I am hollow to the core
Those
Who have tried
And failed
To break me down
Grow weary ..as I do
Eventually go away
And I stay
Forever more the door
Locked
Not to ever be opened

Stage One begins the fun;
First sips reveal the bitter
Blast of hops and alcohol.
BAC is point oh-three, which reads as
"Confident & Daring."
Attention Span and
Flesh are flushed
In dual ways,
(Please catch my drift.
Euphoric people, still
May have a need for shrift.)
Sometimes such things are said or done
That later are not wished.

Judgment begins to slide
On entry of Stage Two.
A numbness in the tongue,
A blurring of the eyes,
Which do not yet see two.
Sometimes as low as point oh-nine BAC,
"Excitement" names the awkward teetering
Between slow thought and sleepiness.
Stumbled response takes coordination,
But the drinker cannot see his weaviness.

Stage Three arrives at point one-eight
And takes the name "Confusion."
Staggered is the walk, and one can sit
And feel the moving of the world.
The maudlin lover here appears,
Replaced by jealous hate that burns
Or bursts in untoward rage that disappears
In an instant's instant, only to return.

Stage Four is Cousin Stupor,
Threshhold BAC is point two-five.
The drinker turns into a Turtle,
Unmoving, Unaware, but still alive,
He cannot stand nor walk,
May drown upon his *****,
And if he lies, should do so on his side,
Though he cannot without assistance
From a brother or a bride.

Stage Five, Fra Coma, may start at point three-five,
Cool skin, slow breath, heart beat, (just barely),
Asleep he may appear, or dead,
As Death stands near.

Stage Six occurs at BAC point five,
Bar Tender Death moves on
To find someone Alive.

1

I look at
my shredded fingertips,
turning gray from Ernie Ball string,
from obsession playing the instrument.
I look at
             the only evidence
of any of that
ecstatic crucible
into my hands,
                      the technicolor
of each pile
                 of felt-tip paintings,
the endless rows
                         of recording
that I can
             only navigate
by seconds, and by minute,
and I am
             deflated.
not a single
                work
was finished.
again,
nothing
could be used.

         2
I look at
the hours flaying me
on my acoustic guitar, and the days
trapped in each sheet of sketches
spent sleep deprived and starving,
alone, not bathing
or speaking; just
drawing. drawing until
the pain reached
too high a threshhold
to be able
to endure,
but i did again and again this
in between those great periods
of being an invalid,
                                 in the hope of something
to be proud of.

I decide I'll go for a walk
to the 7/11.
I buy a 40 dollar bottle
of my favorite Whiskey,
of Jameson and
I get a pack,
                   not the usual kind, not my favorite--
Marlboro Red One-Hundreds,
                                                   but I get a pack
of Parliament Light One-Hundreds
this time.
              I go home, and I drink.
half the bottle. light a cigarette, play
one of my favorites--
those songs
                  from the 1990's.
I sit down
on the floor of my bedroom and
I cut open
my arms
with a pencil.

I'd like to begin
by pointing out the color of the walls;
the pink under the plaster,
and the tubes,
red and blue,
that keep my shower water warm.

This is my home,
that some call a temple,
with two brightly lit halves of an attic,
and no trouble keeping them full.

Its windows are always open,
except when the lights go out
and the shutters are pulled closed
and all that's left breathing is the fireplace
and the attic.

the fire place is a grand face
of grout and proud brick
cradling the humblest coals
under his black, stuffy nose
clogged with no longer solid logs.
His breath keeps the attic warm,
with the help of the coals,
who ask for no thanks.

I'd invite you in
if it wasn't for the moss on the threshhold.
That emerald green.
Those gems that seem,
with dew, to gleem  
a blue and gold sheen
of umpteen citrines.
The sun's careen is seen by these
green finger leaves.

When I turn out the lights
and retreat to the attic,
I hear the moss sigh
like some sort of static.
Her breath reaches the crest
of my gentle home's breast.
The ceiling beam shudder
with a reeling like no other;
A sound that makes me cry,
while my cluttered attic comforts me,
and I speak no word but why.

The moss,
she makes me cry.

I'd like to end
by pointing out the color of the windowpanes,
and the gray of the drywall.
The tubes,
red and blue,
still keep my shower water warm.

This is my home,
that some call a temple,
with two brightly lit halves of an attic,
and no trouble keeping them full.

Its windows are rarely open,
except when the lights go out
and the shutters flutter open
and all that's left breathing is the fireplace
and the attic,
and the colors.

Incessant writhing, restiveness and pain
Deep inside at the core of my heart, these do flourish & breed
Their successive & demonely endeavours
To get freedom from unbreakable clutches of delicate emotions
Do never ever succeed.

At the threshhold of my maleable heart
A silent entry of hitherto unfelt emotions
Busy in gleaning the shattered memories of my dormant past
Dovetailing them hard & giving these a golden cast.

The same old, aeonic & profound pain
Rises slowly but, it pinches again
My innocent heart gets fiercely swayed
It succumbs even when the issues are unnoticed to motley crowd and appear to be wierdly trite
Because the only language it understands best is of "intense love"
& not of any petty fight.

The journey of life was boorish & deadly boring,
My wading heart had very long to wait
But Himalayan thanks to the caring & ubiquitous god
Now my baby- smile is back
As I have got one pretty- pretty SOUL- MATE.

Mukesh kataria