why I love certain men


it’s a raining and writing Saturday,
a washout for the beach visitors who chose their
calendar lottery tickets poorly

but hurrah and huzzah for the poet
in the no-sun-today-room with
steam collecting on his face from his 20 oz. Canadian mug,
the rest of him cozied neath a
wooly mohair knitted and tasseled blanket,
from a now naked and shivering alpaca goat in Turkey or Tibet

perhaps we’ll make a tiny dent
in the 1319 poems,
in the ‘sorta started to do’ list

****.
new one sneaks in demanding immediate satisfaction
and threatening my mind’s incarceration unless,
serviced and unleashed as the Frenchies say

Frites, immédiatement!: (french fries, now!)

I love most men; certain men more than others,
not because they are soft to the touch,
look great in thigh highs, can fix a backhoe,
lay hands on animals, just as they do upon their grandchildren,
or write better poetry than me,
because
they make me weep from zealous delight at
their capricious unprecedented constancy of their
honorable actions

they are soft to the core, which is itself
wrapped in a leather soldered steel,
which defines them by their self-questing constant,
asking themselves preface and postface,
doing it well, in between,

what is the honorable thing?

this honor idea of which writ previous
doesn’t dissolve - indeed grows crescendo stronger,
like the miracle of the Yom Kippurs rams horn
crying out to heavens at the concluding end  
on the holiest judgement day,
a shofar miracle for it inhumanly grows ever louder,
ceasing only when nightfall marks a new day begun,
reminding both sinners and saviour each,
to inquire of their colluding selves on this forgiveness-giving day,

what is the honorable thing?

some are borrowers and some lenders,
of anything, the substance or the whom matters not,
but the bonding bonfire from which the deal is done,
is of a uncharted organic chemical matter unrecognized
but millennium ancient


here I stop

the call to breakfast must be obeyed,
for it’s with lovely made, menu man-poet requested,
this is too an honorable thing to do,
and the 1319 half blood~half writs poking my eyes,
can be faced with new courage afterwards
on a perfect raining and writing Summer Saturday
for the next one hopefully and woefully

may not come till the September (Rosh Hashanah/Jewish New Year) when acorns fall

certain men will greet that fall Sabbath/ New Years Day,  
when Atonement begins, a ten day process to the final conclusion,
by asking of everything living and of every act human performed,
for the forgiveness requested inherent in the absolute bar setting of

what is the honorable thing?

which by the by,

is why I love certain women too...

and all who are honorable
will read this honorific and remain
clueless as to whom it is addressed...

oh god, I do so love that best!

what could signal honor even more...

Urdu Poetry: English Translations



You will never comprehend me:
I pour out my feelings; you only read the words!
―original poet unknown, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Tears are colorless―thank God!―
otherwise my pillow might betray my heart.
―original poet unknown, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Near Sainthood
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Kanu V. Prajapati and Michael R. Burch

On the subject of mystic philosophy, Ghalib,
your words might have struck us as deeply profound ...
Hell, we might have pronounced you a saint,
if only we hadn't found
you drunk
as a skunk!

There are more English translations of poems by Mirza Ghalib later on this page.



Every Once in a While
by Amjad Islam Amjad
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Every once in a while,
immersed in these muggy nights
when all earth’s voices seem to have fallen
into the bruised-purple silence of half-sleep,
I awaken from a wonderful dream
to see through the veil that drifts between us
that you too are companionless and wide awake.



First Rendezvous
by Amjad Islam Amjad
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This story of the earth
is as old as the universe,
as old as the birth
of the first day and night.

This story of the sky
is included in the words we casually uttered,
you and I,
and yet it remains incomplete, till the end of sight.

This earth and all the scenes it contains
remain witnesses to the moment
when you first held my hand
as we watched the world unfolding, together.

This world
became the focus
for the first rendezvous
between us.



Impossible and Improbable Visions
by Amjad Islam Amjad
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Eyes interpret visions,
rainbow auras waver;
similar scenes appear
different to individual eyes,
as innumerable oases
coexist in one desert
or a single thought acquires
countless shapes.



I Have to Find My Lost Star
by Amjad Islam Amjad
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Searching the emptiest of skies
overflowing with innumerable stars,
I have to find the one
that belongs
to me.

...

Gazing at galaxies beyond galaxies,
all glorious with evolving wonder,
I ponder her name,
finding no sign to remember.

...

Lost things, they say,
are sometimes found
in the same accumulations of dust
where they once vanished.

I have to find the lost star
that belongs to me.



Last Night
by Faiz Ahmed Faiz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Last night, your memory stole into my heart―
as spring sweeps uninvited into barren gardens,
as morning breezes reinvigorate dormant deserts,
as a patient suddenly feels better, for no apparent reason ...

There are more English translations of poems by Faiz Ahmed Faiz later on this page.



Intimacy
by Rahat Indori
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I held the Sun, Stars and Moon at a distance
till the time your hands touched mine.
Now I am not a feather to be easily detached:
instruct the hurricanes and tornados to observe their limits!

There are more English translations of poems by Rahat Indori later on this page.



Strange Currents
by Amir Khusrow
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

O Khusrow, the river of love
creates strange currents—
the one who would surface invariably drowns,
while the one who submerges, survives.

There are more English translations of poems by Amir Khusrow later on this page.



The Eager Traveler
by Ahmad Faraz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Even in the torture chamber, I was the lucky one;
when each lottery was over, unaccountably I had won.

And even the mightiest rivers found accessible refuge in me;
though I was called an arid desert, I turned out to be the sea.

And how sweetly I remember you—oh, my wild, delectable love!—
as the purest white blossoms bloom, on talented branches above.

And while I’m half-convinced that folks adore me in this town,
still, all the hands I kissed held knives and tried to shake me down.

You lost the battle, my coward friend, my craven enemy,
when, to victimize my lonely soul, you sent a despoiling army.

Lost in the wastelands of vast love, I was an eager traveler,
like a breeze in search of your fragrance, a vagabond explorer.

There are more English translations of poems by Ahmad Faraz later on this page.



The Condition of My Heart
by Munir Niazi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

It is not necessary for anyone else to get excited:
The condition of my heart is not the condition of hers.
But were we to receive any sort of good news, Munir,
How spectacular compared to earth's mundane sunsets!

There are more English translations of poems by Munir Niazi later on this page.



Failures
by Nida Fazli
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I was unable to relate
the state
of my heart to her,
while she failed to infer
the nuances
of my silences.



Apni Marzi se
by Nida Fazli Shayari
translated by Mandakini Bhattacherya and Michael R. Burch

This journey was not of my making;
As the winds blow, I’m blown along ...
Time and dust are my ancient companions;
Who knows where I’m bound or belong?

There are more English translations of poems by Nida Fazli later on this page.



My Apologies, Sona
by Gulzar
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My apologies, Sona,
if traversing my verse's terrain
in these torrential rains
inconvenienced you.

The monsoons are unseasonal here.

My poems' pitfalls are sometimes sodden.
Water often overflows these ditches.
If you stumble and fall here, you run the risk
of spraining an ankle.

My apologies, however,
if you were inconvenienced
because my dismal verse lacks light,
or because my threshold's stones
interfered as you passed.

I have often cracked toenails against them!

As for the streetlamp at the intersection,
it remains unlit ... endlessly indecisive.

If you were inconvenienced,
you have my heartfelt apologies!

There are more English translations of poems by Gulzar later on this page.



Come As You Are
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Come as you are, forget appearances!
Is your hair untamable, your part uneven, your bodice unfastened? Never mind.
Come as you are, forget appearances!

Skip with quicksilver steps across the grass.
If your feet glisten with dew, if your anklets slip, if your beaded necklace slides off? Never mind.
Skip with quicksilver steps across the grass.

Do you see the clouds enveloping the sky?
Flocks of cranes erupt from the riverbank, fitful gusts ruffle the fields, anxious cattle tremble in their stalls.
Do you see the clouds enveloping the sky?

You loiter in vain over your toilet lamp; it flickers and dies in the wind.
Who will care that your eyelids have not been painted with lamp-black, when your pupils are darker than thunderstorms?
You loiter in vain over your toilet lamp; it flickers and dies in the wind.

Come as you are, forget appearances!
If the wreath lies unwoven, who cares? If the bracelet is unfastened, let it fall. The sky grows dark; it is late.
Come as you are, forget appearances!



Unfit Gifts
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

At sunrise, I cast my nets into the sea,
dredging up the strangest and most beautiful objects from the depths ...
some radiant like smiles, some glittering like tears, others flushed like brides’ cheeks.
When I returned, staggering under their weight, my love was relaxing in her garden, idly tearing leaves from flowers.
Hesitant, I placed all I had produced at her feet, silently awaiting her verdict.
She glanced down disdainfully, then pouted: "What are these bizarre things? I have no use for them!"
I bowed my head, humiliated, and thought:
"Truly, I did not contend for them; I did not purchase them in the marketplace; they are unfit gifts for her!"
That night I flung them, one by one, into the street, like refuse.
The next morning travelers came, picked them up and carted them off to exotic countries.



The Seashore Gathering
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

On the seashores of endless worlds, earth's children converge.
The infinite sky is motionless, the restless waters boisterous.
On the seashores of endless worlds earth's children gather to dance with joyous cries and pirouettes.
They build sand castles and play with hollow shells.
They weave boats out of withered leaves and laughingly float them out over the vast deep.
Earth's children play gaily on the seashores of endless worlds.
They do not know, yet, how to cast nets or swim.
Divers fish for pearls and merchants sail their ships, while earth's children skip, gather pebbles and scatter them again.
They are unaware of hidden treasures, nor do they know how to cast nets, yet.
The sea surges with laughter, smiling palely on the seashore.
Death-dealing waves sing the children meaningless songs, like a mother lullabying her baby's cradle.
The sea plays with the children, smiling palely on the seashore.
On the seashores of endless worlds earth's children meet.
Tempests roam pathless skies, ships lie wrecked in uncharted waters, death wanders abroad, and still the children play.
On the seashores of endless worlds there is a great gathering of earth's children.



This Dog
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Each morning this dog,
who has become quite attached to me,
sits silently at my feet
until, gently caressing his head,
I acknowledge his company.

This simple recognition gives my companion such joy
he shudders with sheer delight.

Among all languageless creatures
he alone has seen through man entire—
has seen beyond what is good or bad in him
to such a depth he can lay down his life
for the sake of love alone.

Now it is he who shows me the way
through this unfathomable world throbbing with life.

When I see his deep devotion,
his offer of his whole being,
I fail to comprehend ...

How, through sheer instinct,
has he discovered whatever it is that he knows?

With his anxious piteous looks
he cannot communicate his understanding
and yet somehow has succeeded in conveying to me
out of the entire creation
the true loveworthiness of man.



Being
by Momin Khan Momin
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You are so close to me
that no one else ever can be.

NOTE: There is a legend that the great Urdu poet Mirza Ghalib offered all his diwan (poetry collections) in exchange for this one sher (couplet) by Momin Khan Momin. Does the couplet mean "be as close" or "be, at all"? Does it mean "You are with me in a way that no one else can ever be?" Or does it mean that no one else can ever exist as truly as one's true love? Or does this sher contain an infinite number of elusive meanings, like love itself?



Being (II)
by Momin Khan Momin
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You alone are with me when I am alone.
You are beside me when I am beside myself.
You are as close to me as everyone else is afar.
You are so close to me that no one else ever can be.



Perhaps
by Momin Khan Momin
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The cohesiveness between us, you may remember or perhaps not.
Our solemn oaths of faithfulness, you may remember, or perhaps forgot.
If something happened that was not to your liking,
the shrinking away that produces silence, you may remember, or perhaps not.
Listen, the sagas of so many years, the promises you made amid time's onslaught,
which you now fail to mention, you may remember or perhaps not.
These new resentments, those often rehashed complaints,
these lighthearted and displeasing stories, you may remember, or perhaps forgot.
Some seasons ago we shared love and desire, we shared joy ...
That we once were dear friends, you may have perhaps forgot.
Now if we come together, by fate or by chance, to express old loyalties ...
Our every shared breath, all our sighs and regrets, you may remember, or perhaps not.



What Happened to Them?
by Nasir Kazmi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Those who came ashore, what happened to them?
Those who sailed away, what happened to them?

Those who were coming at dawn, when dawn never arrived ...
Those caravans en route, what happened to them?

Those I awaited each night on moonless paths,
Who were meant to light beacons, what happened to them?

Who are these strangers surrounding me now?
All my lost friends and allies, what happened to them?

Those who built these blazing buildings, what happened to them?
Those who were meant to uplift us, what happened to them?

NOTE: This poignant poem was written about the 1947 partition of India into two nations: India and Pakistan. I take the following poem to be about the aftermath of the division.



Climate Change
by Nasir Kazmi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The songs of our silenced lips are different.
The expressions of our regretful hearts are different.

In milder climes our grief was more tolerable,
But the burdens we bear now are different.

O, walkers of awareness's road, keep your watch!
The obstacles strewn on this stony path are different.

We neither fear separation, nor desire union;
The anxieties of my rebellious heart are different.

In the first leaf-fall only flowers fluttered from twigs;
This year the omens of autumn are different.

This world lacks the depth to understand my heartache;
Please endow me with melodies, for my cry is different!

One disconcerting glance bared my being;
Now in barren fields my visions are different.

No more troops, nor flags. Neither money, nor fame.
The marks of the monarchs on this land are different.

Men are not martyred for their beloveds these days.
The youths of my youth were so very different!



Nasir Kazmi Couplets

When I was a child learning to write
my first scribblings were your name.
―Nasir Kazmi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When my feet lost the path
where was your hand?
―Nasir Kazmi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Everything I found is yours;
everything I lost is also yours.
―Nasir Kazmi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Memory
by Faiz Ahmed Faiz, as performed by Iqbal Bano
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

In the wastelands of solitude, my love,
the echoes of your voice quiver,
the mirages of your lips waver.

In the deserts of alienation,
out of the expanses of distance and isolation's debris
the fragrant jasmines and roses of your presence delicately blossom.

Now from somewhere nearby,
the warmth of your breath rises,
smoldering forth an exotic perfume―gently, languorously.

Now far-off, across the distant horizon,
drop by shimmering drop,
fall the glistening dews of your beguiling glances.

With such tenderness and affection—oh my love!—
your memory has touched my heart's cheek so that it now seems
the sun of separation has set; the night of blessed union has arrived.



Speak!
by Faiz Ahmed Faiz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Speak, if your lips are free.
Speak, if your tongue is still your own.
While your body is still upright,
Speak if your life is still your own.



Tonight
by Faiz Ahmed Faiz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Do not strike the melancholy chord tonight! Days smoldering
with pain in the end produce only listless ashes ...
and who the hell knows what the future may bring?
Last night’s long lost, tomorrow's horizon’s a wavering mirage.
And how can we know if we’ll see another dawn?
Life is nothing, unless together we make it ring!
Tonight we are love gods! Sing!

Do not strike the melancholy chord tonight!
Don’t harp constantly on human suffering!
Stop complaining; let Fate conduct her song!
Give no thought to the future, seize now, this precious thing!
Shed no more tears for temperate seasons departed!
All sighs of the brokenhearted soon weakly dissipate ... stop dithering!
Oh, do not strike the same flat chord again! Sing!



When Autumn Came
by Faiz Ahmed Faiz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

So it was that autumn came to flay the trees,
to strip them ****,
to rudely abase their slender dark bodies.

Fall fell in vengeance on the dying leaves,
flung them down to the floor of the forest
where anyone could trample them to mush
undeterred by their sighs of protest.

The birds that herald spring
were exiled from their songs—
the notes ripped from their sweet throats,
they plummeted to the earth below, undone
even before the hunter strung his bow.

Please, gods of May, have mercy!
Bless these disintegrating corpses
with the passion of your resurrection;
allow their veins to pulse with blood again.

Let at least one tree remain green.
Let one bird sing.



Last Night (II)
by Faiz Ahmed Faiz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Last night, your lost memory returned ...
as spring steals silently into barren gardens,
as cool breezes stir desert sands,
as an ailing man suddenly feels better, for no apparent reason ...

There are more English translations of poems by Faiz Ahmed Faiz later on this page.



Ghazal
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Not the blossomings of songs nor the adornments of music:
I am the voice of my own heart breaking.

You toy with your long, dark curls
while I remain captive to my dark, pensive thoughts.

We congratulate ourselves that we two are different
but this weakness has burdened us both with inchoate grief.

Now you are here, and I find myself bowing—
as if sadness is a blessing, and longing a sacrament.

I am a fragment of sound rebounding;
you are the walls impounding my echoes.



The Mistake
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

All your life, O Ghalib,
You kept repeating the same mistake:
Your face was *****
But you were obsessed with cleaning the mirror!



Inquiry
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The miracle of your absence
is that I found myself endlessly searching for you.



It's Only My Heart!
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

It’s only my heart, not unfeeling stone,
so why be dismayed when it throbs with pain?
It was made to suffer ten thousand darts;
why let one more torment impede us?

There are more English translations of poems by Mirza Ghalib later on this page.



Couplets
by Jaun Elia
loose translations by Michael R. Burch

I am strange—so strange
that I self-destructed and don't regret it.
―Jaun Elia, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The wound is deep—companions, friends—embrace me!
What, did you not even bother to stay?
―Jaun Elia, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My nature is so strange
that today I felt relieved when you didn't arrive.
―Jaun Elia, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Night and day I awaited myself;
now you return me to myself.
―Jaun Elia, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Greeting me this cordially,
have you so easily erased my memory?
―Jaun Elia, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your lips have provided thousands of answers;
so what is the point of complaining now?
―Jaun Elia, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Perhaps I haven't fallen in love with anyone,
but at least I convinced them!
―Jaun Elia, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The city of mystics has become bizarre:
everyone is wary of majesty, have you heard?
―Jaun Elia, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Did you just say "Love is eternal"?
Is this the end of us?
―Jaun Elia, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You are drawing very close to me!
Have you decided to leave?
―Jaun Elia, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Intimacy
by Rahat Indori
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I held the Sun, Stars and Moon at a distance
till the time your hands touched mine.
Now I am not a feather to be easily detached:
instruct the hurricanes and tornados to observe their limits!



The Mad Moon
by Rahat Indori
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Stars have a habit of showing off,
but the mad moon sojourns in darkness.



Body Language
by Rahat Indori
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your body’s figures are written in cursive!
How will I read you? Hand me the book!



Insatiable
by Rahat Indori
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This mighty ocean, so deep and vast!
If it sates my thirst, how long can it last?



Honor
by Rahat Indori
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Achievements may fade but the name remains strong;
walls may buckle but the roof stays on.
On a pile of corpses a child stands alone
and declares that his family still lives on!



Dust in the Wind
by Rahat Indori
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This is how I introduce myself to questioners:
Pick up a handful of dust, then blow ...



Dissembler
by Rahat Indori
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

In your eyes this, in your heart that, on your lips something else?
If this is how you are, impress someone else!



Rumor (M)ill
by Rahat Indori
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I heard rumors my health was bad; still
it was prying people who made me ill.



The Vortex
by Rahat Indori
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I am the river whose rapids form a vortex;
You were wise to avoid my banks.



Homebound
by Rahat Indori
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

If people fear what they meet at every turn,
why do they ever leave the house?



Becoming One
by Amir Khusrow
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I have become you, as you have become me;
I am your body, you my Essence.
Now no one can ever say
that you are someone else,
or that I am anything less than your Presence!



I Am a Pagan
by Amir Khusrow
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I am a pagan disciple of love: I need no creeds.
My every vein has become taut, like a tuned wire.
I do not need the Brahman's girdle.
Leave my bedside, ignorant physician!
The only cure for love is the sight of the patient's beloved:
there is no other medicine he needs!
If our boat lacks a pilot, let there be none:
we have god in our midst: we do not fear the sea!
The people say Khusrow worships idols:
True! True! But he does not need other people's approval;
he does not need the world's.

(My translation above was informed by a translation of Dr. Hadi Hasan.)



Amir Khusrow’s elegy for his mother
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Wherever you shook the dust from your feet
is my relic of paradise!



Paradise
by Amir Khusrow
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

If there is an earthly paradise,
It's here! It's here! It's here!



Mystery
by Munir Niazi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

She was a mystery:
Her lips were parched ...
but her eyes were two unfathomable oceans.



I continued delaying ...
by Munir Niazi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I continued delaying ...
the words I should speak
the promises I should keep
the one I should dial
despite her cruel denial

I continued delaying ...
the shoulder I must offer
the hand I must proffer
the untraveled lanes
we may not see again

I continued delaying ...
long strolls through the seasons
for my own selfish reasons
the remembrances of lovers
to erase thoughts of others

I continued delaying ...
to save someone dear
from eternities unclear
to make her aware
of our reality here

I continued delaying ...



Couplets
by Mir Taqi Mir
loose translations by Michael R. Burch

Sharpen the barbs of every thorn, O lunatic desert!
Perhaps another hobbler, limping by on blistered feet, follows me!
―Mir Taqi Mir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My life is a bubble,
this world an illusion.
―Mir Taqi Mir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Selflessness has gotten me nowhere:
I neglected myself far too long.
―Mir Taqi Mir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I know now that I know nothing,
and it only took me a lifetime to learn!
―Mir Taqi Mir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Love's just beginning, so why do you whine?
Why not wait and watch how things unwind!
―Mir Taqi Mir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Come!
by Gulzar
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Come, let us construct night
over the monumental edifice of silence.
Come, let us clothe ourselves in the winding sheets of darkness,
where we'll ignite our bodies' incandescent wax.
As the midnight dew dances its delicate ballet,
let us not disclose the slightest whispers of our breath!
Lost in night's mists,
let us lie immersed in love's fragrance,
absorbing our bodies' musky aromas!
Let us rise like rustling spirits ...



Old Habits Die Hard
by Gulzar
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The habit of breathing
is an odd tradition.
Why struggle so to keep on living?
The body shudders,
the eyes veil,
yet the feet somehow keep moving.
Why this journey, this restless, relentless flowing?
For how many weeks, months, years, centuries
shall we struggle to keep on living, keep on living?
Habits are such strange things, such hard things to break!



Inconclusive
by Gulzar
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A body lies on a white bed—
dead, abandoned,
a forsaken corpse they forgot to bury.
They concluded its death was not their concern.
I hope they return and recognize me,
then bury me so I can breathe.



Wasted
by Faiz Ahmed Faiz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You have noticed her forehead, her cheeks, her lips ...
In whose imagination I have lost everything.



Countless
by Faiz Ahmed Faiz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I recounted the world's countless griefs
by recounting your image countless times.



Do Not Ask
by Faiz Ahmed Faiz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Do not ask, my love, for the love that we shared before:
You existed, I told myself, so existence shone.
For a moment the only light that I knew, alone,
was yours; worldly griefs remained dark, distant, afar.

Spring shone, as revealed in your face, but what did I know?
Beyond your bright eyes, what delights could the sad world hold?
Had I won you, cruel Fate would have ceded, no longer bold.
Yet all this was not to be, though I wished it so.

The world knows sorrows beyond love’s brief dreams betrayed,
and pleasures beyond all sweet, idle ideals of romance:
the dread dark spell of countless centuries and chance
is woven with silk and satin and gold brocade.

Bodies are sold everywhere for a pittance—it’s true!
Besmeared with dirt and bathed in bright oceans of blood,
Crawling from infested ovens, a gory cud.
My gaze returns to you: what else can I do?

Your beauty haunts me still, and will to the last.
But the world is burdened by sorrows beyond those of love,
By pleasures beyond romance.
So please do not demand a love that is over, and past.



O God!
by Qateel Shifai
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Torture my heart, O God!
If you so desire, leave me a madman, O God!

Have I asked for the moon and stars?
Enlighten my heart and give my eyes sight, O God!

We have all seen this disk called the sun,
Now give us a real dawn, O God!

Either relieve our pains here on this earth
Or make my heart granite, O God!



Hereafter
by Qateel Shifai
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Since we met and parted, how can we sleep hereafter?
Lost in each others' remembrance, must we not weep hereafter?

Deluges of our tears will keep us awake all night:
Our eyelashes strung with strands of pearls, hereafter!

Thoughts of our separation will sear our grieving hearts
Unless we immerse them in the cooling moonlight, hereafter!

If the storm also deceives us, crying Qateel!,
We will scuttle our boats near forsaken shores, hereafter.



Picnic
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My friends laugh elsewhere on the beach
while I sit here, alone, counting the waves,
writing and rewriting your name in the sand ...



Confession
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your image overwhelmed my vision.
As the long nights passed, I became obsessed with your visage.
Then came the moment when I quietly placed my lips to your picture ...



Rain
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Why shiver alone in the rain, maiden?
Embrace the one in whose warming love your body and mind would be drenched!
There are no rains higher than the rains of Love,
after which the bright rainbows of separation will glow with the mysteries of hues.



My Body's Moods
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I long for the day when you'll be obsessed with me,
when, forgetting the world, you'll miss me with a passion
and stop complaining about my reticence!
Then I may forget all other transactions and liabilities
to realize my world in your arms,
letting my body's moods guide me.
In that moment beyond boundaries and limitations
as we defy the conventions of veil and turban,
let's try our luck and steal a taste of the forbidden fruit!



Moon
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

All of us passengers,
we share the same fate.
And yet I'm alone here on earth,
and she alone there in the sky!



Vanity
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

His world is so simple, so very different from mine.
So distinct—his dreams and desires.
He speaks rarely.
This morning he wrote: "I saw some lovely flowers and thought of you."
Ha! I know my aging face is no orchid ...
but how I wish I could believe whatever he says, however momentarily!



Come
by Ahmad Faraz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Come, even with anguish, even to torture my heart;
Come, even if only to abandon me to torment again.

Come, if not for our past commerce,
Then to faithfully fulfill the ancient barbaric rituals.

Who else can recite the reasons for our separation?
Come, despite your reluctance, to continue the litanies, the ceremony.

Respect, even if only a little, the depth of my love for you;
Come, someday, to offer me consolation as well.

Too long you have deprived me of the pathos of longing;
Come again, my love, if only to make me weep.

Till now, my heart still suffers some slight expectation;
So come, ***** out even the last flickering torch of hope!



I Cannot Remember
by Ahmad Faraz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I once was a poet too (you gave life to my words), but now I cannot remember
Since I have forgotten you (my love!), my art too I cannot remember

Yesterday consulting my heart, I learned
that your hair, lips, mouth, I cannot remember

In the city of the intellect insanity is silence
But now your sweet, spontaneous voice, its fluidity, I cannot remember

Once I was unfamiliar with wrecking ***** and ruins
But now the cultivation of gardens, I cannot remember

Now everyone shops at the store selling arrows and quivers
But neglects his own body, the client he cannot remember

Since time has brought me to a desert of such arid forgetfulness
Even your name may perish; I cannot remember

In this narrow state of being, lacking a country,
even the abandonment of my fellow countrymen, I cannot remember



The Infidel
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Ten thousand desires: each one worth dying for ...
So many fulfilled, and yet still I yearn for more!

Being in love, for me there was no difference between living and dying ...
and so I lived each dying breath watching you, my lovely Infidel, sighing                       afar.



Ghazal
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Life becomes even more complicated
when a man can’t think like a man ...

What irrationality makes me so dependent on her
that I rush off an hour early, then get annoyed when she's "late"?

My lover is so striking! She demands to be seen.
The mirror reflects only her image, yet still dazzles and confounds my eyes.

Love’s stings have left me the deep scar of happiness
while she hovers above me, illuminated.

She promised not to torment me, but only after I was mortally wounded.
How easily she “repents,” my lovely slayer!



Ghazal
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

It’s time for the world to hear Ghalib again!
May these words and their shadows like doors remain open.

Tonight the watery mirror of stars appears
while night-blooming flowers gather where beauty rests.

She who knows my desire is speaking,
or at least her lips have recently moved me.

Why is grief the fundamental element of night
when blindness falls as the distant stars rise?

Tell me, how can I be happy, vast oceans from home
when mail from my beloved lies here, so recently opened?



Abstinence?
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Let me get drunk in the mosque,
Or show me the place where God abstains!



Step Carefully!
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Step carefully Ghalib―this world is merciless!
Here people will "adore" you to win your respect ... or your downfall.



Bleedings
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Love requires patience but lust is relentless;
what colors must my heart bleed before it expires?

There are more English translations of poems by Mirza Ghalib later on this page.



No Explanation! (I)
by Ahmad Faraz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Please don't ask me how deeply it hurt!
Her sun shone so bright, even the shadows were burning!



No Explanation! (II)
by Ahmad Faraz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Please don't ask me how it happened!
She didn't bind me, nor did I free myself.



Alone
by Ahmad Faraz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Why are you sad that she goes on alone, Faraz?
After all, you said yourself that she was unique!



Separation
by Ahmad Faraz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Faraz, if it were easy to be apart,
would Angels have to separate body from soul?



Time
by Ahmad Faraz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

What if my face has more wrinkles than yours?
I am merely well-worn by Time!



Miraji Epigrams

I'm obsessed with this thought:
does God possess mercy?
―Miraji, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Come, see this dance, the immaculate dance of the devadasi!
―Miraji, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Excerpts from “Going, Going ...”
by Miraji
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Each unfolding vista,
each companion’s kindnesses,
every woman’s subtle sorceries,
everything that transiently lies within our power
quickly dissolves
and we are left with only a cupped flame, flickering ...
Should we call that “passion”?

The moon scrapes the horizon
and who can measure a star’s breadth?

The time allotted a life, if we calculate it,
is really only a fleeting breath ...



1.
Echoes of an ancient prophecy:
after my life has come and gone,
perhaps someone
hearing my voice drifting
on the breeze of some future spring
will chase after my songs
like dandelions.
—Miraji, translation by Michael R. Burch

2.
Echoes of an ancient prophecy:
after my life has come and gone,
perhaps someone
hearing my voice drifting
through some distant future spring
will pluck my songs
like dandelions.
—Miraji, translation by Michael R. Burch

3.
Echoes of an ancient prophecy:
when my life has come and gone,
and when I’m dead and done,
perhaps someone
hearing me sing
in a distant spring
will echo my songs
the whole world over.
—Miraji, translation by Michael R. Burch

If I understand things correctly, Miraji wrote the lines above after translating a verse by Sappho in which she said that her poems would be remembered in the future. I suspect both poets and both prophecies were correct!




Every Day and in Every Direction
by Nida Fazli
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Everywhere and in every direction we see innumerable people:
each man a victim of his own loneliness, reticence and silences.
From dawn to dusk men carry enormous burdens:
all preparing graves for their soon-to-be corpses.
Each day a man lives, the same day he dies.
Each new day requires the same old patience.
In every direction there are roads for him to roam,
but in every direction, men victimize men.
Every day a man dies many deaths only to resurrect from his ashes.
Each new day presents new challenges.
Life's destiny is not fixed, but a series of journeys:
thus, till his last breath, a man remains restless.



Couplets
by Nida Fazli
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

It was my fate to entangle and sink myself
because I am a boat and my ocean lies within.
―Nida Fazli, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You were impossible to forget once you were gone:
hell, I remembered you most when I tried to forget you!
―Nida Fazli, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Don't squander these pearls:
such baubles may ornament sleepless nights!
―Nida Fazli, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The world is like a deck of cards on a gambling table:
some of us are bound to loose while others cash in.
―Nida Fazli, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

There is a proper protocol for everything in this world:
when visiting gardens never force butterflies to vacate their flowers!
―Nida Fazli, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Since I lack the courage to commit suicide,
I have elected to bother people with my life a bit longer.
―Nida Fazli, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Changing Seasons
by Noshi Gillani
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Each changing season
reveals something
concealed by her fears:
an escape route from this island
illuminated by her tears.



Dust
by Bahadur Shah Zafar or Muztar Khairabadi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Unable to light anyone's eye
or to comfort anyone's heart ...
I am nothing but a handful of dust.



Piercings
by Firaq Gorakhpuri
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

No one ever belonged to anyone else for a lifetime.
We cannot own another's soul.
The beauty we see and the love we feel are only illusions.
All my life I tried to save myself from the piercings of your eyes ...
But I failed and the daggers ripped right through me.



Salvation
Mohammad Ibrahim Zauq
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Anxious and fatigued, I consider the salvation of death ...
But if there is no peace in the grave,
where can I go to be saved?



Child of the Century
by Abdellatif Laâbi (a Moroccan poet)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I’m a child of this dreary century, a child who never grew up.
Doubts that ignited my tongue singed my wings.
I learned to walk, then I unlearned progress.
I grew weary of oases and camels infatuated with ruins.
My head inclined East only to occupy the middle of the road
as I awaited the insane caravans.



Nostalgia
by Abdulla Pashew (a Kurdish poet)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How I desire the heavens!
Each solitary star lights the way to a tryst.

How I desire the sky!
Standing alone, remote, the sky is as vast as any ocean.

How I desire love's heavenly scent!
When each enticing blossom releases its essence.



Oblivion
by Al-Saddiq Al-Raddi (an African poet who writes in Arabic)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Discard your pen
before you start reading;
consider the ink,
how it encompasses bleeding.

Learn from the horizon
through eyes' narrowed slits
the limitations of vision
and hands' treacherous writs.

Do not blame me,
nor indeed anyone,
if you expire before
your reading is done.



In Medias Res
by Shaad Azimabadi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When I heard the story of my life recounted,
I caught only the middle of the tale.
I remain unaware of the beginning or end.



Debt Relief
by Piyush Mishra
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

We save Sundays for our loved ones ...
all other days we slave to repay debts.



Reoccurrence
by Amrita Bharati (a Hindi poet)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

It was a woman's heart speaking,
that had been speaking for eons ...

It was a woman's heart silenced,
that had been silenced for centuries ...

And between them loomed a mountain
that a man or a rat gnawed at, even in times of amity ...
gnawing at the screaming voice,
at the silent tongue,
from the primeval day.



Don't Approach Me
by Arif Farhad
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Don't approach me here by the river of time
where I flop like a fish in a net!



Intoxicants
by Amrut Ghayal (a Gujarati poet)
translation by Kanu V. Prajapati and Michael R. Burch

O, my contrary mind!
You're such a fool, afraid to drink the fruit of the vine!
But show me anything universe-designed
that doesn't intoxicate, like wine.



I’m like a commodity being priced in the market-place:
every eye ogles me like a buyer’s.
—Majrooh Sultanpuri, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

If you insist, I’ll continue playing my songs,
forever piping the flute of my heart.
—Majrooh Sultanpuri, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The moon has risen once again, yet you are not here.
My heart is a blazing pyre; what do I do?
—Majrooh Sultanpuri, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Drunk on Love
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Drunk on love, I made her my God.
She quickly informed me that God belongs to no man!

Exiles
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Often we have heard of Adam's banishment from Eden,
but with far greater humiliation, I abandon your garden.

To Whom Shall I Complain?
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

To whom shall I complain when I am denied Good Fortune in acceptable measure?
Dementedly, I demanded Death, but was denied even that dubious pleasure!



Ghazal
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You should have stayed a little longer;
you left all alone, so why not linger?

We’ll meet again, you said, some day similar to this one,
as if such days can ever recur, not vanish!

You left our house as the moon abandons night's skies,
as the evening light abandons its earlier surmise.

You hated me: a wife abnormally distant, unknown;
you left me before your children were grown.

Only fools ask why old Ghalib still clings to breath
when his fate is to live desiring death.



How strange has life become:
Our evenings drag out, yet our years keep flashing by!
―original poet unknown, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Longing
by Allama Iqbal
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Lord, I’ve grown tired of human assemblies!
I long to avoid conflict! My heart craves peace!
I desperately desire the silence of a small mountainside hut!



Life Advice
by Allama Iqbāl
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

This passive nature will not allow you to survive;
If you want to live, raise a storm!



Destiny
by Allama Iqbal
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Isn't it futile to complain about God's will,
When you are your own destiny?

Keywords/Tags: Urdu, translation, love poetry, desire, passion, longing, romance, romantic, God, heaven, mrburdu

Where has your soul gone to?
Why do your writs smell of blood?
Why are you numb to feeling?      

Soulless
Bleeding                                              ­    
Numb

Society.

Motet: an unaccompanied choral composition with sacred lyrics; originated in the 13th century.  Suggestion: look up on YouTube, the Hilliard Ensemble.*  Jewish tradition says that there are 36 righteous souls on Earth, whom for their sake, God preserves the planet and its inhabitants.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Motet II

August 2013

Last night,
I lay with God,
Again.

We made love inimitable,
As if it were the first time.
The music of purity, voices ensemble,
The only commonality.

Afterwards, heaving, sweaty, in bed,
He reminded me that I had already
Written of the motet, long ago,
But permission granted to
Love it, write of it, once more,
As I He, and He, me...

Because after-all, the motet prayers belong to Him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Motet

Nov. 2010

Ce soir, I am prepared, My Love,
hopeful of being worthy,
diminished before all,
rendered and prepared,
transported and train-spotted,
prostrate and yet risen.

The motek-sweet motet wings me
heavenward to more than relief.
Grace, grace, I am both,
becoming and becalmed,
drowned and delighted,
entwined and unwound,
compost but composed,
invaded and imbued.

These voices doth
wrack my fibers,
seethe and contract,
my internal power plant
implodes, heart attack.

Glorious generations of singers,
O woven voices that harmonize,
your motet is
umbilical to my lyrical,  
calming chemical reaction,
I am servant and
you are my server,
uplift, calm and provoke me.

Sing out loud God's
ephemeral, unpronounceable name,
cover me with the fame
of His naturity,
love me with divine kisses,
release unto and within me
the essential oils,
oils by which we breathe,
ancestorally transfused,
oils once called the
blood of the soul.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In my past harmonies of poesy,
you shared, lost or just deleted,
tribute unto tribulations human:

I recorded, ven diagrammed,
sorrowed tales of souls waylaid,
debts foreclosed, dues unpaid,
tales of non-fictional agonistes,
suffering a tutti frutti of sarcastic
Earthly  Delights.

Wrote writs re some poor souls,
Prado preserved,
by threading and dying,
on a cloistered tapestry
woven by Adonai worshipers.

With those selfsame oils,
they painted anticipated memories of
Heaven and Hell,
the ones of which I write,
far too oft.

But this night,
In my customary hour
when inspiration is my only tongue,
in the lean hours after midnight,
afore dawn's orangerie of
morning skyed break fast,
I am risen, nourished and
uplifted by the motet's synthesis,
by what I hope to see,
by what I wish to hear.

For I watch,
porched and perched on rooftop,
in the company of
urban spelunkers and debunkers,
all of us desperados,
differing reasons for despair,
yet together,
a human minion-minyan of ten,
we search Jerusalem,
from the Battery to the Cloisters
for glimpses, hints of human angels,
the thirty six^
ministering to the
homeless and dreamless,
to us all.*

Ce soir, I am prepared,
hopeful of being worthy,
diminished before all,
rendered and prepared,
transported and train-spotted,
prostrate and yet risen,
the motek-sweet motet wings me
heavenward to more than relief.

Grace, grace, I am both,
becoming and becalmed,
drowned and delighted,
entwined and unwound,
compost but composed,
invaded and imbued.

Reveal, reveal to me the identity
of your ministering angels!

As the thirty six preserve me,
motet me on eagle's wings, and
return us to you Lord,
that we may be returned.

Renew our days,
as they were before,
when the motet
was bright, organic,
in each of us.






----------------------------------------
^www.neveh.org­/winston/wonder36/36-08.html

grade my writings in magenta,
no red arrogance for me teach,
blue note jazz margin comments,
unacceptable marginalizing pithy succinct notes,
always cute, hard hitting,
even in day to day black or Bic blue,
refused!

give me ochre, amethyst,
give me the colors of a new born morn,
give me words of encouragement
next to that nicely writ,
without a self-serving
high faluting exclamation point,
astride my D, my F,
a polite professorial funk you

in azure gold
leave me,
write me in colors of hope,
even claptrap deserves
a nice funeral

because gentle teach,
this thought I preach,
what color would you like me
to grade your students in,
your writs,
when next I look
twenty years from now?

will you not leave
me,
be,
in
the color of better days
enthused?

Roses are red
Violets are blue
But now so am I
And it's all cause of you
Now instead of the roses
My writs are blood red
And the violets have stained
The side of my head
You hug me and cry
And I say it's okay
But you always come back
With your violent bouquet

~for Steve and Marshal~

they crouch round,
white wide eyes,
their skin, *****, like
the darkness that
completes their near
invisibility.

new child arrives when
it declares I’m here, not
seeking acclaim, just a
witnessing to its slimy
amniotic messy, amnesiac
birth.

what does it say, what,
does it know? the stilled birth
of permanent incompleteness.
though hardly alone, it has no
siblings, though, it has much,
much company.

these half-writ poems predestined
to never see light of any kind, neither,
sun or moon or bare bulb glare, bred
to never age, never die, their ultimatum,
to be discarded when the bytes, their
geophysical representation is tossed
into the crusher bin, recycled, reformed,
but still always half-breed, half-writs.

nml
Apr 2, 2022
nyc

the quality of quantity is unmerciful,
prodigious production of
wine improperly aged,
pours soiled drops
spilled without craft,
care or taste,
poured too quick to be
nothing more than
less than waste

born in reckless unrestrained
than every thought a golden gift,
bestowed upon the masses,
droppeth like the harshest hurricane rains,
gives no moisture sustenance to the world,
only floods and lays waste in dazed hazes

blesses none but the one who
cannot but cant,
measures his own demeanor in the mirror,
unsuspecting the mirror mirrors
the ides of ego,
seeds of self destruction

the throned monarch
who giveth
but does not take,
thinking the king he is,
his own best,
even better than his creator
and tho he carvo's his retno critiques
upon the brows of his subjects,
he cares not,
for it boring brings
more mastubatory page views
his addition of success,
his edition of self congratulatory
of writs and snits,
which adds up to a whole lot of
****

but you may put you pen down now,
for the world needs only
need one poet,
and it ain't me,
and it certainly ain't
you




.

Janis, she just mocks, how they knock off every berry
And the snow on the branch, now, “Calandra, never worry.”
Seasons come, like they fall, and they spring forever weary
In the Valley of the Orchids, rare are birds unto a journey

Feeble, does he brew; with the stones, shall he marry
Corralled is the smoke, tossing hills as it carries
Fuming seas in the sky, past the bricks and the rye
Cabaret, hear him, nigh does his skin peel and fly

On an arch in a prairie in a province in a land
Where the children are told how to fear their hands
Atop smoky pine feathers that burst when they're touched
We stomp and we squeak to the air on, we march

A prison laced in reddened storms drones on mountains ever-scored
Looking north by north bygone, the test, remiss, we’ll move southward
But on the sky sits Cerise Range and all around in spheres, a cage
And then, a beak we see invade! A crash and splat; of juice we’re made

May the fly, the mayfly evade the day the children hang
The Brewer, haste has made, pours his broth, begins the day
Hide, little child, like the fly, become the blanket on the marsh
Become the stock, but don't give up, next month won't be so harsh

Jude of June, that's what she’s called, she grooms her quill and tests her ink
The One of Blue, another name, she writes for everyone to breath, she blinks,
“O small brown bird, you speak the path? Well I have ever shone on some.”
The Summer Sun, that's who she is, who waits for Janis, soon to come

Jewel in the eye, dome of peace
Returneth casts our masks beneath
Iris besets, “Berceuse, my mess.”
Sad, for slowly nights a guess.

Part-time, will’o’writs she can dust
A cat's tail christened, paw in a gust
Navigating, where galleys waste strewn
The suns of Aude across its boon

Deliver us Toulmask, lost and protested
Past Bejeweled Silken in millions, nested
In Scepter where embers aroma holds on
To the sands like rocks destroying its spawn

Into the nest, deep. With Man, reborn against winds and dusk
Will best the heaps, lifespans of each, in caverns each a husk
Cut deep with scythes. The Trembling, Bellowing, Festering,
Reckoning, unending Octobering deathening, surrendering:

You! Bird, the bell rings
Brown bard, the sun sings
Sky guard, no venerate
Berried lark, thou emirate

Welcome, into ends and to makers
Watch with, admire, be your desires
Forget time, velvet rubs you and penetrates
Valley’s of orchids that start, to disintegrate

Red drops onto the spotless counter
Bright crimson against the pale white
A singular red circle in a sky of while
Another drop falls and joins it
Smaller than the first
Then another and another

She looks in the mirror
Maskera streaked like smoke trails against her skin
Pain in her eyes
Her lips quiver and she bows her head
Clear drops falls among the red on the counter

The tears continue to fall as she looks up again
She wipes the tears from her face
As her hand moves over the skin a trail of red appears
Her eyes focus on the smear of blood
She once again wipes her face and she knows what she must do

She takes a breath and looks to her arms
The small cuts seem like whispers in the night
She opens up a makeup compact case
Inside a dozen pieces of broken glass
Just as broken as her

She picks up a curved one
Originally from a glass she broke in the kitchen
About two months ago
Just another incident in a never ending stream
It looks like ice as she sets it against the white counter top

She lines each piece up in a line
Almost like a small army
Preparing for battle
However the war rages inside her
And the end is nowhere in sight

She looks over them
Some duller, older than others
She mulls over them as she makes a decision
And sets a few to the front lines
Looking up once again she takes a breath

Her tears have halted
And her breath stills
All waiting, anticipating
She chooses one
The glass feels so familiar in her fingers

The tip sits pressed against her skin
She winces as she pushes harder
And finally rips through
Skin tears from skin
As the glass glides through her flesh
Like a marathon runner crossing the finish line

The red arises from the depths
It pours over the edges of skin and slides down her wrists
It drips to the counter with ferocity
And soon the drops of red become puddles.

She chooses another recruit
This time a flat piece of glass from a window she dropped
Again it tears into her as she holds her breath
Blood flows and spills against the white
And the tears begin to flow again

Looking down she sees her wrists
Blood covered
They feel so weak
She begins to sob as she lets them fall to her sides
The pain of existence right there on her hands

She sits against the wall until she finds the strength to stand again
The blood on her writs gone from a running stream
To a dark paste
Blood on the counter a aftermath
Dried and black

She picks up a piece of clean glass
Presses it in the open wound and slides it through
The dried blood quickly overcome with a fresh spring or crimson
Once again the drops fall along with her tears

She turns the water on in the sink
It flows clear as day
Clear as the glass sitting beside it
She runs her writs under the cool stream
And winces as the water hits her wounds

The blood runs away and the gaping gashes are all that's left
She grabs a towel and puts it under the water
It dances across the counter as it smears the blood
She wipes it again and again until it all disappears
She runs her arms again under the water cleansing them

Lastly she looks to the glass
Bloodied soldiers only partially lined up
Several scattered around the counter
Like bodies on a battlefield

She scoops them up and washes each one
One by one
She sets the sterile glass back into the makeup compact case
Laying them to rest
Until they will be called to duty again

She looks down at the clear white counter
And turns off the water
She tosses the towel and looks up
A shell of a human being is reflected in the mirror
She wipes her tears again and leaves

Off to fall into the inky blackness of sleep
Hoping and wishing
That if it be even remotely possible
She could wish herself to death
And never wake up

It's so easy
To slice through those
Writs of yours;
It's so easy
To make an excuse
Not to eat;
It's so easy
To smoke yourself
To death;
It's so easy
To open your mouth
And purge your problems away;
But it's so hard
To open your mouth
And speak

(Dedicated to Stephen E Yocum)*



You who have spent time on this planet,
That you can count your annual growth rings,
By just employing a combination of
Fingers, toes, eyes and nose,
Stop and think, after reading on.

Forty years on, what are the words, the titles,
The honorifics that you would like to see
Next to your name?

There is a yeoman Yocum in our midst,
Who has collected a few adjectives,
The sum total if additive,
Is a resume most complete,
One you should envy!

Able Friend,
Lover of Dogs and Humans,
Gentleman Farmer, Decent Photographer,
Spinner of tall tales, woven for his
Grandchildren.

A writer, a poet,
He says "a would be,"
I say, one who attempts,
Puts his name on writs public,
Is no would-be!

Who here would dare disagree?

More than all this, unlike so many,
Grateful for everyday of life,
Even those ****** full of strife,
And who served, a grunt,
One of the proud, the few.

I salute, you, and call out,
Attention Poets, Marine On Deck!

But no stuffed shirt ,
A man of soil and earth,
Who can laugh at himself, and write,

"My driving experience feel greater,
Would be to speed down the road,
Behind the wheel of my little Red Racer,
Completely **** naked,
And of course,
Feel the wind in my hair."

It is easy to be some things.
It is hard to be many things,
But it is the hardest, and the best,
When you look back,
And laugh out loud, admit,
The funniest thing you know,
The one that keeps you sane,
The one-thing, hardest, and the best,
Is to laugh at yourself.

So stand attention,
Go to the mirror,
Tho you might not like what you see,
If you focus, and really look tight, squint,
Do not be surprised,
If, in a few minutes,
You burst out laughing,
Especially if you do it in your
Birthday suit!

Maintain this perspective,
Forward and retroactive,
And then perhaps,
You will be able to write
These words...like he did!

Where upon, sheer elated emotions,
Of this my journey of self discovery,
Began to sink in and I started to cry.

There are times is one's life,
when lessons are taught,
When almost no words
need to be spoken.

And the best teacher's are
our own Brain and Heart,
Comprehending, embracing
Life's many shared Lessons.*

Marine Slocum, Stand at Attention!
There are Poets saluting you.

hang on tight, baby -
keep your senses wide
for we're going on a roller-coaster ride;
scream as much
but just hang on tight, baby -
hang on for dear life


times are tough
more than ever;
bills come at the speed of bullets
taxes gather like summer flies
and debts ricochet against our walls;
the banks want more and more
but there's just air in our pockets


hang on tight, baby -
keep your senses wide
for we're going on a roller-coaster ride;
scream as much
but just hang on tight, baby -
hang on for dear life


the jobs dry up and
the dollars dwindle into cents;
permanent becomes temp
and temp becomes non-existent;
full-time goes into part-time
and part-time into casual
and casual into zilch


hang on tight, baby -
keep your senses wide
for we're going on a roller-coaster ride;
scream as much
but just hang on tight, baby -
hang on for dear life


nature conspires with the economy,
sweetheart:
she sends rains and fire and landslides;
she claws sands off the beaches and
all we have left are
government ******* and *******
who care a hoot about our fish and chips


hang on tight, baby -
keep your senses wide
for we're going on a roller-coaster ride;
scream as much
but just hang on tight, baby -
hang on for dear life


time's not on our side either, sweetheart;
mind you, with mighty puffed cheeks
he blows H1N1 flu round the globe
and so sends people and customers away
and those who remain turn cheap and nasty
and all these pigs want are discounts and freebies


hang on tight, baby -
keep your senses wide
for we're going on a roller-coaster ride;
scream as much
but just hang on tight, baby -
hang on for dear life


the collection agencies are knocking, dear -
it sounds much like the knock of death
in Beethoven's ninth;
the mortgage barbarians are on their horses
and they send writs and auction threats
and re-possessions


hang on tight, baby -
keep your senses wide
for we're going on a roller-coaster ride;
scream as much
but just hang on tight, baby -
hang on for dear life


O hang on, sweetheart,
hang on tight:
many will fall, many will bleed
but those who hang on tight
and those who can love
those who can dream together
they will ride the nights out into clear day


hang on tight, baby -
keep your senses wide
for we're going on a roller-coaster ride;
scream as much
but just hang on tight, baby -
hang on for dear life

I heard someone whisper "he's such an arrogant *****" as I entered.
Those crooked sons of ******* don't have any idea,
I'm the kind you hardly ever come across except in winters,
when all the street rats are begging for heat.
I command attention at the head of the table,
I am the head of the table,
and sever the head to **** the municipal body.
The wigs and robes and gavels I accessorize command it too.
When I sign things I do it haughtily,
I carefully etch each and every ******* letter onto writs of demand.

I stand!
A hush lingers,
I catch the eyes of Walter Weiss, he lies with every breath
and did you know he is unfaithful to his wife? I heard.
the shudders are shut, my druthers. Oh, Walter!
notarize my forms of annexation, please.
and take down this:
To whom it may concern:

You have 7 days to remove yourself from the premises
as you are aware of the edict that preexists
and preempts your residence
and your squalor misrepresents
your laziness.
Signed: The holding powers, in eminence.

Oh Walter Weiss, address it to yourself!
I pride myself on tact.
And package with the writ this evidence form
sent to my office following a secret examination
conducted by the Department of Residential Safety and Heath.

Do not bother me with demoralizations, Walter!
Due to discourse with the Act of Discontinuation,
(which of course is subject to broad generalizations)
the lien sector of the Savings and Loan Association
have concluded you are found in violation of, through reasoning by generalization,
failing to pay duties on your mortgage issued by the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation.

Oh, Walter, how distressing!
Don't falter, acquiescing
is always the way.
Just never, ever forget to pay.

The young poetess^ writes:

Sitting on the edge of brilliance,
that cuts my youthful pride to shreds,
are the verbal shards of bards,
poets, beyond my experience.

Expelling their lifeblood,
I can, but only,
place my hands upon
their open wounds
murmuring hopeful platitudes,
praying that their blood spilled,
is not their excellence drained,
their wisdom wasted and stained!

The old hoary replies:

Wishful thirsty drinkers
from the cups of youth are we.

We 'presumed' ancient bards
have lived to regret the
burden of our accumulations,
the weightiness of our pages,
owning insights, steeped,
fermented, wine-to-vinegar,
spoiled by age, time-wasted.

Our words, product of visions
grown dim and simp,
under no duress,
we-eager confess!

Better poets were we,
when possessed of
blood hotter, skin smoother,
brow clearer, innocent of fear!

Your eager cuts run
zesty red and freely,
Ours, clotted ones,
anemic, yellowed from
the curse of the boundaries
of too much experience,
purchased pricey rules,
murderers of our uninhibited courage.

You cogitate with
passions unlined, unruled.
We shuffle, bemoan
our drizzling days,
waiting for relief,
and yet, rue
our inevitable conclusion.

We curse our fate, our slow dissolution.

You bless the opportunistic rising sun,
enervated by energies unbounded,
You animate for answers, solutions!

We sit caned and quiet, acidic,
damning Solomon and his caustic words -
There is nothing new under the sun.

Perhaps we know a word or two more than you.
Gladly we'd trade that for youthful hands
that pray, point and scribe, with the eagerness
that sets words upon paper of spirits enflamed!

Time, our master, has shred our writs to pieces,
yet, you young poetess, greet the morn, confident, saying
**today I will give birth to the first of many, masterpieces.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That all rots and dies of their sins,
In what is called their burning minds,
In what is called the merit of mine.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That all souls adore and salute sunshine,
That all is destruction that I can see,
That no pain is to be borne beneath me.

I am in love with the brightest days;
On which all are a mess less faithful,
That they are the betrayal they meet;
I am the destruction the poet writs.

I am in love with the brightest days;
For such days are dead to compassion,
Neither literature it is, nor passion,
None of the good poetry shall remain.

I am in love with the brightest days;
The roseate joys of the evil moon,
And the yellowness that writhes like me,
And shall be drowned, like me.

I am in love with the brightest days;
And the leaning branches that sway,
The leaves and roots that soon forget,
The unchained heart that shuns truth.

I am in love with the brightest days;
In me is a sanguine fear of faith,
A blinding rose and denial of joy,
A hesitant fire of madness.

I am in love with the brightest days;
I delight not in sweet foreign ways,
I am a shunned temper myself, from within—
I am still blind, I am still not seen.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That no rain remains and clouds are sins,
That the skies are but no flattery to me;
That roads are too blind and shan’t see.

I am in love with the brightest days;
For my shine makes it hard to read thy poem,
And shall blind utterly verdicts and prose,
I am the evil bud of the devil’s rose.

I am in love with the brightest days;
For none in coldness shall stay shimmering,
And who shall forbid the curse of snow,
I shall not hide at dusk, and in the morning.

I am in love with the brightest days;
For no sun in sight shan’t see tomorrow,
And what malice hides by the snow,
With gruesome lies by the forgiving rain.

I am in love with the brightest days;
For all favours me, a great stupor,
I shall deliver those impending pains,
I shall make decay all that remains.

I am in love with the brightest days;
For all is tumult that they can’t see,
For none in their dark nest shall see me,
For none of their joys stays with me.

I am in love with the brightest days;
I crave for all poignant walks and ways,
And no misery to me is deprecating,
And no lyric to me is love.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That I can but writ my own verses,
While ‘tis in my fate, my being not,
The fatal destiny I was born for.

I am in love with the brightest days;
For all the dark is too cold to see,
Nor an ecstasy to my rabid hands,
Just a minor of the vile rain.

I am in love with the brightest days;
All cold things are spoilt for me to see,
Nor an indulgent touch to my senses,
A hindrance to the earth’s lenses.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That thy dark love has failed me to see,
And not by thee shall I want to be,
I want to be the brightest on my own.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That the devil is but all over me,
That my own mind has lived without me,
That my sight is numb, that I cannot see.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That the bad is born, and grows in me,
That my own hatred has left me,
That my conscience has fallen away.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That my sullen memory has hated me,
Leaving me for the rain in my wake,
Leaving me for the winter it makes.

I am in love with the brightest days;
For the sultry rain lulls me to sleep
And the night makes me weep so deep,
That I but fake myself in my slumber.

I am in love with the brightest days;
And guess who teases the stars awake
While the night makes us love so true,
That I but anger thy verses anew.

I am in love with the brightest days;
And guess who makes the sky so blue,
All is hatred in my red chamber,
All is hurt, an eternal wound.

I am in love with the brightest days;
And whose words but disable thy poems,
When all I do is but shine on who writ,
When I shan’t ruin the words that meet.

I am in love with the brightest days;
And whose spell makes daytime brilliant,
With a shine so idyllic in its doom,
With a pink shade so thick as idioms.

I am in love with the brightest days;
And guess who makes daylight so true,
With rainwater so awash with gloom,
With dusk so laden with tears.

I am in love with the brightest days;
And guess who makes fall foliage appear,
With such dryness that is ever here,
With such droughts that are near?

I am in love with the brightest days;
And guess who shows the morning anew
And makes you swim across sweet daylight,
Who weeps for you outta cold nights?

I am in love with the brightest days;
And guess who makes daytime so sweet
That all souls roam about on their feet,
Who shall make the world alive?

I am in love with the brightest days;
I admire my soul’s reddish complex;
But others leave in their flamboyance,
Neglecting light by their arrogance.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That I have attained my shades anew
That I have my rose-gold to me,
That all is physical and lovely.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That all is alive and sees again,
That all is the heart of me and man,
That all is ****** and beauty.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That all that remains is putrid lust,
With a passion for flesh and dust,
With tongues on thine, and lips on mine.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That all that hurts becomes love,
That to desire has love awakened,
That love is flesh, love has shortened.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That all that pains becomes joy,
And there is misery in delights,
I only find love on moaning nights.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That the wrong has my saluted joy,
And all thy warmth shall turn to heat,
A heat that assaults and shan’t die.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That only evilness shall see my yule,
That only light leaves all breathless,
That only redness entertains me.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That moronic love shall foam their ways,
That all are lies that can destroy,
That all devours the sweetness of joy.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That such love of theirs comes from within,
Where I’ll be an unfaltering pain,
And my joys are a writhing abyss.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That I shall be the one to laugh,
To live and love of my own accord,
To sing a song with my weird chords.

I am in love with the brightest days;
The ones of everlasting fears,
That one shall be their own poor peril,
To come and go and shall come again.

I am in love with the brightest days;
The one in which no more can cheer,
That one shall consume their own evil,
To go and fade and have gone again.

I am in love with the brightest days;
I am not a beast to their pale sight,
Nor are they beastly to me;
They feed off my venom and my beauty.

I am in love with the brightest days;
I am not a poison to their light,
Nor are they poisonous to me;
They drink off my heat and my sea.

I am in love with the brightest days,
I am not too hesitant nor bashful,
I am not a love nor truth like rain,
I am not one of those Northern souls.

I am in love with the brightest days;
I am not the shy moon nor the sky,
I am not the bold nor the right,
I am the sin, not the Northern Light.

I am in love with the brightest days;
I am in love with not being love,
I am in love with not bringing love,
I am in love with not feeding love.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That all love shall be gone for good,
Nor are there facts to remain in truth,
All shall stay and die, as they should.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That love is pain all the night and day
That any living form shan’t live for long,
They are to fade within my robbed song.

You drift away from each of us
Before you are sufficient;
We would long for you to live on,
We would not want you to leave.

You are too brief to understand
Way too voiceless to speak;
A threat to many who profess
A question that hearts raise.

You live too shortly in your way
With your flaws by the blue moon;
You are fast like a flowing river,
And with you is the eternal winter.

You are not a flawless toil
Incarnated in bones and soil;
You swarm the sins of my *****
The fire of my soul, and means.

You are bare as I’ll have my way
And yet you have none to say;
You are soundless, as I remember,
Shy and dominant as I recall.

And as though I have you in my veins
As my bare chest has reminded me;
As though I have no sins to close
As though I am so vacant as a rose.

And as though I am like a lavender,
I am never as stunning as a rose,
For the rose has threatened to ****,
For the rose has a bad will.

And as though the rose has a soul,
But with no age, with no cure
With no love to love me,
With the immortal love I desire.

And as though I want it to be,
As though I shan’t be jealous,
The rose and age have been zealous,
I am hurried by my time for thee.

And as though I want me to see,
That age is not cordial to me,
That age has but not my soul,
That age has given me my world.

As though I kept my fate in me,
As though I had it all alone,
As though it could ever last,
As though I could stay alive.

As though I kept my soul within me,
As though the moon could speak,
As though I could not feel worried,
As though I could still live.

As though I shall not die,
As though death shan’t cry,
As though I am idle to you,
As though I am too chaste to live.

As though poems cannot write,
As though I, the poet, shan’t tell,
As though words emit no light,
As though they shan’t wish me well.

As though all notions are mute,
As though no sound could speak.
As though all sights are gone,
As though jokes are not alone.

As though all notions are idle,
As though all poems are riddles,
As though our age is immortal,
As though our tongues shall last.

As though my age does not bleed,
And not blame all my sins on me,
My ends are not bleak but to meet,
Merry in a sense, troubling to be.

As though my age matters not,
I’ll live away my story short,
As though I am the poet of the day,
As though I am the sin of my words.

As though my age worries me not,
My passion shall let me free,
I and my verses shall wander not,
I and they are what we can be.

As though my age believes me not,
My stories ring but true to you,
I am the wise poet of honour,
Excite my songs and sing my hours.

As though my age stays beside me,
I shall not cheer but trust in me,
I cannot feel but I always see,
I cannot hear but feel at ease.

As though my love believes me not,
My heart is filled with loud cheer,
That in their own sense is aloof,
That in their sight is love.

As though my age shall last,
My countenance hast faith in me,
I am none that the world shall see,
The sole music of my naïve joy.

As though my age shall not fade,
As though I shall forever sing,
I shall cherish my everlasting sin,
I shall cherish what your poems mean.

As though my age shall not wane,
I shall cherish the eyes of storms,
Witness the benign shower of rain,
Feast on the innocent red night.

As though my age shall stay bright,
I shall strive to enjoy the light,
Bury myself deep in cold sunlight,
Watching the brilliant grass at night.

As though my age shall be here,
I shall excite the sage in me,
That a poet is I want to be,
That all shall last on a sunny day.

As though my age shall be with me,
I am the poet that one can be,
Stun the world with my tunes,
See the earth through the moon.

As though my age shall be near,
I shall choose but to live here,
I shan’t **** away nor move,
For a joy so soft that is a rose.

As though my age but hears,
I shall opt not to leave,
I shall still stay here aft’ long,
Playing back my old summer song.

As though my age shan’t falter,
I am the poetess that writs,
I have funny ears and wits,
I have a joke in my verse forever.

As though my age shall still live,
I am the poet that wants to hear,
Sings the tunes that are not present,
Reads the warm steps of the past.

As though my age shall triumph,
I’ll live and love inside my poems,
For this world is but an insulting drama,
An indulgent swoon of fake lovers.

As though my age shall remain,
None of such lives smells like rain,
That all that perish shall die again,
And many shall die of their own lust.

As though my age shall not swerve,
As though our lives are not curbed,
As though immortals are an excitement,
As though fate is an impediment.

As though my age is not tired,
As though my age is pure,
All I can think of is my nights,
None that I have seen is true.

As though my age is not wrinkled,
As though all is not lost in years,
As though all feet stay young,
As though skin stays fresh.

As though my age is bare,
As though aging is dead,
As though death shan't ring,
As though hearts shan't sing.

As though my age is idle,
As though my age is pure.
As though I could handle,
As though love is awake.

As though my age is here,
As though days shan’t pass,
As though my age shan’t die,
As though my age is love.

As though love is honest,
As though love is pure,
As though love does not deny,
As though love does not lie.

As though love is childish,
As though love is destiny,
As though love is festive,
As though love is poetry.

As though love is not age,
As though love stays alive,
As though love deeply feels,
As though love is not ill.

Toss these brackened antlers
to a Babylon of early crows
where slim repels of cirrus
lace the marches of Orion.
I wore you as an amulet
hard pressed upon my pestle arm
as charms of montane lunar drift
rebelled about your peacock gaze.

There is balsam on the Eastern run
in piquant writs of clementine ,
where jubilees of Persian mote
reveille in the waiting still.
As hieroglyphs of scrying palm
lay wraith about the cindered pane
you harried in ancestral bell..

The name of some forgotten God.

I have never been published
or won a prize,
except, yeah, yeah,
the one in the
Crackerjack box

but from that cheap plastic surprise,
much was learned even as a young boy

cull the chaff of life
from amidst the wheat

plant it well and deep,
then forget all about it,
except where,
t'was seeded

when eyes yellowed,
hair turned a color Disney repackaged as
frozen
white,
normally a gift of a hairdresser,
called mother time,
and your pink skin scaled smooth
now kin and kith of the kitchen grater,

then time is in,
cull your plantings

go back into that yards,
pull out the weeds,
uncovering what only time
can provide -

poetry planted and born from
the summary addition of thousands
of days of life,
well felt,
well received,
well recorded,
drawn from earth and water,
well lived

sometimes my nyc sidewalks uneven,
cause a toe snagging tripping,
this loss of balance,
adrenalin hot flashing,
similar to tripping upon a new poet

every time I say no mas,
I must choose tween
left or right,
one can
read or one can write,
but not
both

a voice on I stumble,
making me ever so foolish,
ever so humble,
ever so confused

so at 12:31am
at it again,
reaping what others have sowed

this woman by her own confess,
Trouble with a capital everything
T.R.O.U.B.L.E

only a grownup chile
writs me a poem
re crackers in her vegetable soup,
a naval battle akin to that of Midway,
that makes me crackers with delight!

saucy, that poetess
you better love her well,
she tells you outright
or she'll sell you, the reader out,
for the next one cruising along,
hence this poem, her good graces sought!

but to get certain memories I want,
but can't recall for I never had them,
she, for me doth record:

Imaginary space within a dream
floats in a subconscious sea.
Our affection grows from
tremulous beginnings
its dramatic unfolding
vestige of the soul whispers
and lingers in twilight and ice

Shared breath,
in time our leisured rhythms
savored sweetly match kiss for kiss.

Words in parody drop,
one by one.
enmeshing me in rippling sorrow,
once again you've moved
just beyond my reach.

curse the teachers and the genes
and my plain vanilla simp vocabulary,
that don't let me write like this,
but to my backyard I go,
where I cull what other's have planted better,
and harvest the new fruits of
crackerjack superior poets

'My body normally wouldn't shiver that way,
it is because your fingers touched me.
You gave me glitters and tunes I never experienced.
I felt like waves of water crushing into land.
We would travel to Paris and Rome and Prague.
With glistening eyes you walked and danced around my presence.
That voice of yours sounded like music and felt like poems.
I was surrounded with lies, but I didn't care.
Lies you want to hear, said the magazines lying on my lap.
Take me to the promised cities. Take me there in your arms.
I kissed that muscular neck hundred times,
but you wiped those kissed away.
I sprayed my writs, neck and ******* with Chanel.
Hoping you would touch me like that again.
But you didn't.
You left me there standing, watching thin air turning blue.
I always felt so beautiful around you.
Never leaving you was the first lie you told.
And the best.
There was a moment that I really believed in it.
Believed in you.'

I keep having this recurring dream
where you're there
and I'm there
and we're hiding beneath the sheets
because that's the only place
the light can't find us.
You're brushing up against my face
and I can feel your chest contract
with mine.
I look at you
and I know it will be the last
but I just hold you
And your heart beats against my throat
and your breath expels along my skin
You're alive
and I can feel you
and you can feel me too.
I look into your eyes
and I see the ocean

I'm on the beach
and she's walking behind me
humming sweet songs of adolescent love
she's happy.
I dive into the waves
but this time it's different
this time I'm drowning.
I'm drowning and she's not there
I clench my fists and count to ten
but I'm still drowning.
I call for you but you never come

I'm in church
nine years old
and the pastor swears I am pure
he swears we will be forgiven
and I turn to mommy
ask if Jesus will forgive daddy
for the lipstick on his collar
but she doesn't reply.
She's in the bath late at night
she's crying softly
dropping her cigarette in the tub
I try to make her smile
but she's still crying
Daddy left her for a *****
and she's still crying.

It's you again
This time you're holding my hand
and we're walking, just walking
you plant a kiss upon my forehead
and we keep walking.
But somewhere in this version of my terror
I'm still drowning
and you're screaming from the surface
that I deserve it
That I finally know
what it feels like to die
and you're not going to save me.

I wake up
in a place that my body knows as hell
and your gazing at my corpse
I'm chained against a wall.
You're crying
you're begging for my help
but I can't
I tug against the steal
hanging like anchors
from my wrists
but I can't move
You're bleeding out
across the floor again
calling my name
but I can't save you

I awoke to a symphony
that reminds me
in every filthy way
that I have killed you
I am reminded of my brother
trapped in an unforgiving youth
playing spin the bottle
but here
he is alone
kissing the wounded parts of himself
in hopes that they will heal
I am reminded of my mother
and how she still thinks
I don't notice the empty pill bottles
in the bathroom
and she still can't seem to stand straight
without daddy by her side
I am reminded of my friend
and how she gave the broken parts
of herself
to a boy who didn't give
a ****
a boy who kissed all the girls
that tasted of *****
and had no scars along their writs
I am reminded that people leave
in every conscious minute
of every hour
ever lived
people leave
people leave
*p e o p l e   l e a v e.

Your caress has turned to mold,
to keep me good you said:
"someday, if only.."
this way,
I vivisect,
my dead soul with your
increased failed words
while I shelter
on this avenue that you walked on,
once with hopes for your return
and....going going gone.

The bad habit of my fantasies
a stillborn hunger
so massively
I wish for you
to do me violently,
in the back of your car
like a deity,
like that cigarette that never leaves your mouth
Inhale me deeply
blow the smoke out
and let me spread
from your lungs into the hole in your heart.

Drive me far - I won't object,
lick at my scars as to infect and
indulge yourself with me,
tangle in the kiss
that eyes grace
upon naked skin
dazzled by delicate writs.
As your most needed need
force me to please.

And I will cry
when the rain falls,
I do it once more for you
as if taught
to obey teardrops,
so pure
I lay them in front of you to hold
buttons to be pushed, no,
tear them apart
won't you?

-11

Why are you an atheist?
How often I get asked this question...
Because I am alone in this world.
I am alone, and you have your God.
How is your God great, and is your God good,
When every time the news comes on,
I hear the latter?
People killing people in so called,
"Holy wars."
What's so holy about ******?
About war?
About ****?
Poverty?
Suicide?

So while you spend your Sundays staring
At the heart of an empty sky,
While you waste your last breath pleading for forgiveness,
I will sit here and be an innocent bystander
To the will of your ******* savior.
Such horrors your savior has put me through.
Why am I living in a place where people are judged
By the color of their skin?
A world where people slit there wrists and throats
Just to feel alive.
A world were daddy's **** their "little princess'"
And mommy is on the bathroom floor
A little too long this time.
If that is the world we live in,
I don't want to live there anymore.

So, take your comic books and your name tags
And pedal your beliefs somewhere they are needed.
I don't want them.
Your God doesn't know me.
He doesn't know what I can take.
And what about the people who couldn't take
What they were given?
With their broken backs
And your broken heart
And my broken mind.

Oh. But what if I have lost my mind?
Throw me in my padded room
With my bleeding writs
Tied behind my padded back.
Thanks so much for your God's help,
So much for knowing my breaking point.
It's too late I am lost forever and
The void in my heart is full of jellybeans,
And the void in my head is filled with my heart.

I, am tired.
Where is your god now?
Where were you when I needed you most? What about when I was face down on the ground?
I thought of you, it went up with the bottle
and went down with the pills.
Who stopped me from killing myself?
When the thoughts slowly left my head
And my heart ceased its song in my chest.

Where are you now as I sit in front of your children,
The corpse of a girl we all once knew,
And spin my stories?
Where are you now?
Where is your God?

I am God.

(a.m)

And here I am, back in my anthology;
Although I have immersed myself in clouded sleep,
Whose sickly sweet could heal me no more;
I was but a tempted dawn in his lap,
A frail daughter of fate, and chastity;
My fatal sleep alone was a curse, to one and others.

Silence, beautiful voice!
How should I instill thee—and instill thee more?
And how wert thou so aloof, though deeply poised?
For every breath that I writ, and taste
is but a luminous sign of death;
an unhappy ding towards my presence,
and its mortal cringe, that is ending by the day.
And thus in such a life there is no wit
Nor cold enough, to redeem its wrath;
A wrath that shall leave this earth untouched,
A grime that hastens much, that all joy
Shall sicken and roam fast, unconsumed.
Why should all be jolly—but not to me,
Not to me, a dutiful daughter of my past,
But whose heart has hurt, by its last;
Whose tears are pure, but not profound;
Ah, me, whom such bland minds scorn in their right,
Me, whom their commoners refuse in plain sight,
Me, whom hath lost my dream of the arts,
Me, whom hath died of my own screams at night!
Ah, who am I but to redeem my joy again,
and claim a delight that was not my friend—
Ah, and which conscious soul is but to comprehend its right,
The extraordinaire of which—that are not moral nor righteous,
Nor are their tendrils—which are not even theirs,
At such a hand full of perils, risky and scandalous.
Who is longing for the pearls of a vision,
Who yearns but for love, for reincarnation,
And no love is dubious, none that remains,
But oblivious, a dire threat to its loving friend;
My fate has lost its way, to the white and cold,
My love has gone, and shan’t be with me again.

Where is but my poem, my little flushed cheek,
Why were you yesterday so smooth and meek?
Where did you hold my destiny, with a fate so clear,
Why did you choose to love me, with a love so weird;
But with no real heart to love me, and my judgments,
Shall I but be allowed to make judgments?
For there were too many taunting ways in which love swore,
And again I was dragged to the vile hot shore,
So my wisdom has raged in a swath of labyrinths,
Too painful for a soul too mean, but not a poet;
Too indecisive to read, let alone to comprehend,
And too unloved to understand, nor seek in a daze,
Perhaps unloved by its own words, like a ******,
Immature in their own corrupt years, like you are;
You are a naïve product of my mind, you are pure,
Of whose love never my sound thought is so sure,
Though hastened by a bare world not ours,
Nor a cycle that is mine, with pain so sour.

Silence, my love; and let briefness lulls you to sleep,
To the lethal eternity which salutes you, be gone,
Gone away like an eerie fairy in mortal dreams,
With their gates ajar, welcoming you in such
clamped dramas, a loveliness without thee,
A cheapness I would not by—nor defend
On the name of my artistic soul.
Did my lavender greet you and cherish you again,
And shall such a loving bud be that of thine;
But to speak less, and remain silent, o my friend—
is but a garment; a nicety to the friendly mind,
Oft’ cornered in daylight, but glazy to the lone night,
The night is kind and festive, unlike the wan sunlight,
Rotting ever is its flesh, dimmed by such sharp sins;
And grandeur and artiste which I once befriended,
That I was a deep dear of whom—‘till I was torn,
By the disfigured spring and summer
Blaming the poor beheaded winter,
A thousand miles from here, into the West yonder.

But who is to love by the spring and bright,
But who is to listen, to hear by the moonlight,
To linger forever ‘till I catch your sight,
To hesitate to claim your love, forever;
Which steals and shine on a lie, that eternally;
Who stand not by my side, in a fateful wake
Of dozens of seas and shores—and untouched dust;
And then all died, so that I ask you,
My literature, whose heart has been but one love,
Whose heart been pained, and disgraced;
In a suited torment and whirling betrayal,
To see once more, a night of sparkles and shades,
To rejoice by a lake of wind, and beautiful glades;
To relish more the charm of poetry, and the beastly—
but glorious freakish rain, so long as you are with me.

In a thought of mine, springs the midnight air;
All is my free beauty so cold and fair,
And I am devoid of a hundred stellar suns;
The illiterate to read, the stifled anguish gone.

In a thought of thee, springs the buoyant mind;
A painting so clear with an electric lair,
That all are a guitar and drum, as it sounds;
That a renewed love has been found.

In a thought of ours, springs the forest rain;
A poem to dim down that eternal drain,
To cease the doubts, and decipher all pains,
Bring me my sweet love, my immortal friend.

In a thought of love, springs the live sonata;
That all hesitation is a panorama,
Like the dramatic act, and its tragedies;
I shall sink myself in thy melodies.

In a thought of breath, springs the sweet song;
That battles rage and its dark humour,
That all mirages shall live in downpours,
That all happiness shall last a night long.

In a thought of fate, springs the sweet poem;
All in my life is a literary grandeur,
All within me desires to writ and love;
All about me in a satin room.

In a thought of joy, springs the sweet tale;
I shall wish thee the best of all and well,
I shall wish thee love, and a story to tell;
In one decreed satire, and hurried wedding bell.

In a thought of two, springs our promise;
All my nightingale and its sweet bliss,
Who is to cherish thee, so grand and wise;
Who is to be thine, so wild as a surprise?

In a thought of one, springs unity;
That all thy beauty shall be rain and youth,
And a word of love forming in my mouth;
And two hearts joining into eternity.

In a thought of bliss, shall I be here;
Such miracles shall be found near,
Who is then to listen to bare wisdom,
Concealed behind naïve truth, inside a poem?

In a thought of light, shall thou be loved;
Among the thousands of larks in the woods,
For I have chosen you to be in my words;
To be my little star, to be my beloved.

In a thought of wind, shall we find cold;
For cold itself is peace on its side,
A turmoil blending into our awake night;
A disgrace dying by a thousand lights.

In a thought of cold, shall we find grace;
Naïve in its glimpses of faltered fears,
But knowing us both yet not;
That it can but challenge the tears.

In a thought of warmth, shall we find youth;
Its spirit shattering the tearful past,
And shall we run, to find in which another smile,
And wipe all our painstaking breaths away.

In a thought of theirs, shall we find hate;
Its song slaughtering the daisies of fate,
In its velvet ways that are so simple;
A harmless perfume to the demented world.

In a thought of Him, shall we find peace;
No prayer shall be void to a sacred move,
And then I shall unite myself with thee;
Like the song sings, the poet and her love.

In a thought of you, shall we find ways;
Perhaps hidden and buried in eerieness,
No thought is too airy, not in the day;
No space is too mild, nor are they cold.

In a thought of us, shall we find life;
You are my rose and magical truth,
That who refills my chest and breath,
That who delights in me, and my red fate.

In a thought of life, shall we find ease;
All about life are roses and raging beasts,
There is happiness to forgive sins,
There is joy to a poem, and what it means;

In a thought of breath, shall we find love;
That no wrath comes near, that we find home,
That poetic arch of mine and thine,
That all lust and enormity are gone.

In a thought of night, shall we be there;
Holding each other and on to the air,
That all tears sound hastened and weird,
That our damp love is all I care.

In a thought of charm, shall we be free;
All the storms that are not tears,
And freedom that shall be here,
Presenting itself to be with me.

In a thought of rain, shall we be fine;
And in one leap of joy, thou shalt be mine,
And be my poems and words everlasting,
In the dark of the night—by the morning.

In a thought of gloss, shall fear be gone;
And my sheer heart shall be thine alone,
Be my poem a book that chastely sings,
Be thou an angel that has wings.

In a thought of truth, shall life be ours;
That all is a tale at midnight hours,
And be like a poetry of unity,
My heart lives there for eternity.

In a thought that vast, who thinks about the past;
When we crave for the poem that lasts,
And who is to fret at this new wonder;
My heart lives there forever.

In a thought that wild, who thinks about sad;
My past has left my whole mad,
Agitated by our renewed delight,
Terrified by our new dewy night.

In a thought that hastes, who says about poetry;
That all is a song our hearts can bear,
That all is enjoined lips, and their beauty;
That all is more than what they wear.

In a thought that sees, who frets about love;
That love is a substance cold and free,
****** only between you and me,
That love is a word, and words are enough.

In a thought that hears, who trusts but words;
That words shall witness those who speak,
That there is idyll in such truth, and worlds,
That words are honest, but not sickly.

In a thought that listens, who saints the sun;
There is too much hate in its glued merit,
That all is a gale but not a careful breath,
That all is bitter, and not at all sweet.

In a thought that loves, who says about love;
That love is hidden within your bare voice,
And your bare voice, in your entangled chest,
The very place I shall find ease and rest.

In a thought that writs, who says about wits;
All is mortal when they have not to say,
That they are blind at night, and in the day,
That their flooded souls shall find none too sweet.

In a thought that reads, who says about fits;
All is silence so far as the eye can see,
And who is there to flock my solitude?
I am far from the sun; and its mock servitude.

In a thought that thinks, who is to love lust;
For lust shall lose hope in one curt day,
That all is there only for the sun,
Bathed in hotness, charmed for nakedness.

In a thought that bears, who is to love hate;
For hate is the chain of every devil,
And in whose devil the world shall lay,
As that in ours, through the night and day.

In a thought that springs, who is to lose thee;
I’ve all along in the glistening white chamber,
My whiteness has been purified close,
I shall not be gone, I shan’t be lost;

In a thought that lives, who is to writ’ thee;
I’ve loved all the while in life, and in my words,
That I’ve given my love there—and so to thee,
That I shall breathe, so long as thou love me;

In a thought that breathes, who is to love thee;
I’ve loved all the years, and meanwhile,
I have been pained, and yet shall not fail;
I’ve loved and carried you still, all the while.

In a thought that whirls, have I dreamt of thee;
That such a thought shall make me sane,
And such a curse is devoid of pain,
The curse to love thee dearly, my friend;

In a thought that bursts, have I been thine;
That all solitude shall, at once, be fine,
And our bliss is faith, and faith is tonight;
I shall wait for thee by white moonlight.

Her hair is like the of the sun.   Her eyes are like the color of brown gemstones.   When I am her, every nerve in my body tells me this is right.       What shall I do with these feelings ? Should I push them astray?  Or should I express them in a loving way? Each step I take towards her feels like she is father away. The decision was made for me. The truth blurted out. Her feelings were not the same. I ran away with my feelings still intact. The next day I still watch her from a far but it was different. There is no hope but all my nerves kept telling me this is right. That my feelings for her is right. I went home and all I could think about was her. What's wrong with me what does the world see in me? I pick up a pen and paper and wrote my feelings for her one final time. At the end of the note it said, I love you. I walked into the kitchen and looked at the knife and looked at my writs and I knew it was time. As I closed my eyes my blood trickled down into a puddle. I realized something important everyone should know. Love hurts more than it pleases.

In all the years I have lived,
as a man, a boy, a kid.
Pondered have I, with every breath,
how would it be that I face death.

Some promised me an afterlife,
Of pleasures I seldom craved.
Some said I would burn in hell,
afraid were they, I wish them well.

Some said I needed a soul,
some said I had one.
Albeit naught in a vast whole,
some said I was the soul.

Redemption is the way some said,
to rest in peace, beneath the grave.
People to possess, places to haunt,
else they said I would ever hunt.

A few said, I would meet with GOD,
albeit only if I agreed to bow.
With empty heads and holy writs,
spreading fear is all they did.

Seldom did they know death,
Soldom do I;
Seoldom does anyone,
for all are yet to die.