modern poetry

twigs of being

twigs_of_Being_poem

I would call it rain,
but it’s just a drop,
that slithers through
the contours of the
heartbeat.

I suddenly
become still,
like a branch
suddenly strapped
to a shaft of sunlight.

If I could peek
inside
to witness
a constellation of twigs,
flickering and shudders,
after each clinch,
as the hungry drop
tunnels through
the expanse of feeling.

At that moment,
language tangles up
into a yarn of illusion.

It falls still wet with joy.

I am planet
eroded by pleasure,
a hard knot of memory.

But everything is quiet,
only for a chime
every time
the drop clinks
against an organ
or a thought.

Contemporary Poetry

black earth

black_earth

That once I found mirrors
sprawled on the floor, and I
looked for the mountains
of my eyes.

There were many
but lightly had I
taken flecks of skin
to cover the mirrors;
that I wanted to see
no more my reflection
but only feel the caress
of silence,
it was about blood
that trickles like a mute river
around the architecture of bones.

An aura,
myriad of angles,
a hollow breeze trapped
but circulating from one
morsel to the next,
the opulent scattering
of cavities and memories.

I would never comprehend
the purpose but once
inside I could walk
counting the domes
of each mystery
like beads in a rosary.

I could even step upon
the slabs of shadow
for I was only
an invisible thought
measuring the joy
of the black earth.

 

 

Contemporary Poetry

bellsound

bellsound

 

If the end
at a glance
a whole gamut streaked
about to be found
last feeble fleeting
piece of a second.

Someday come.
When all the pages
are stained with words,
but for a white slice of purity
gliding over the dark fallacies
of thoughts.

The mesh, and the ink
has followed the trail
of remembrance.
but this life
being an anthology of instants
has a silent museum
of shadows and vivid
lights.

When all meaning
at last
is a shapeless mass
if in the end
at a glance
something is found;
a piece of motionless
bellsound nestled
by chance
in the straw
of the verb.

 

Contemporary Poetry

the meaning

the meaning

and this that I
see is not a symbol
but the meaning itself

I see
the world
bloated like a vein,
pushing, thrusting
its contents forward,
violently,
towards a new woven
germination.

It does not stall
nor does it rest
at every corner or turn,
it continues like a flood,
as the blood of phenomena
surges through every vessel
of this quivering world.

There is no pause,
no break in its
wild mutations.

I cannot say that I understand
this upheaval, these eruptions
as the muscle of matter convulses
as the nerve of energy pulsates.

But I see a clump of red push,
the flare spreading from night
towards some illusive perpetuity,
the multitudes of twilights
flickering like feathers and swords
in this horrible clash of sensations.

This I see, not a representation
but bulges of smoke billowing
at the end of a sprouting disaster,
whiteness overflowing with obscurity
darkness softening into a monsoon
that shall cast billions of pearls of light.

 

 

Modern Poetry

Travel: nothings and everythings

nothings_and_everythings

 

It was today
that I decided
to scratch the sky,
to turn the leaves
of the clouds,
to learn the language
of the tiny suns;
yes today I deposit
diamonds of silent voice
inside the cups of galaxies;
I want to pinch
the catastrophe of the heavens
and have all the nights
dance around my sudden life
like fierce nebulae of
nothings and everythings.

Contemporary Poetry

schematization

You now
must know
what it is to crave a glass of water
or to sip a kiss;
to be so reckless as to flood
the heart because it is a crater of chalk
and you’re tired of its empty dusty frame.

I don’t remember what
kind of day it was.
Full of sun with
musky winds, dark with
impalpable clouds, perhaps
flat and drunk in sapphire.

I don’t care what kind of day
it was; a day to forget like all
the rest had I not begun to count
the breaths I’ve taken in despair.

I began stooping like an imbecile twig
that bends with every paddle of the wind
as if an essence had broken into milliard
tiny mirrors on the sidewalk, and I had
to count and sew them back into a remembrance.

I plead for the pallid crust of light that envelopes me
like a bulky perfume to melt into a song of shadow
or even for a single mindless mote of dust
to land catastrophically on me and pierce
this ferrous mold, I want to watch my holy skin
fall away and leave a naked and unwashed soul
standing erect like a pagan odalisque.

But don’t show her mercy, kick her out
of this world drama, let her run barefoot
back to her incomprehensible origin.

It could have been a year ago, while getting on
a bus that I conceived of grabbing silence
by its throat and squeezing out a peep;
I had been so innocently prone to believing
that the world was a gigantic bird suffocating
me with its kaleidoscopic feathers but
now I feel at home because suffering
sets as a sun behind the panorama of knowledge
and even if it is reborn every day I dream
at night of being a thin echo of fiction.

Amen.

Contemporary Poetry

art and time

History is a duel between art and time.
– Will Durant

art_and_time_Poetry_in_21st_century

Allow me
to carve
my strange vision
in your interior

let me turn
your feelings
into marble
shinning inside
my hidden truth

allow me to build
from your essence
the columns
to a new cathedral
where I will sit
to sing my memory

one day I hope
to be remembered
as the artisan that painted
the landscape of your soul
with the aurora of a dream

perhaps
this poem
is already a relic
of our brief encounter
crumbling on your tongue

crumbling like the rock
that was once art
but now becoming dust
for time’s wind.

Contemporary Poetry

the sanctuary of breathlessness

I lift one eye
above the rim of shadow
but retreat as a coward
the clouds of amnesia
still billow above
this younger year

I’m lying under the sanctuary
of breathlessness
the moon crosses the sky
like the dew
of a forgotten dawn

that night
was a reign of
untamable fragments

the air steers
its somber fumes
it is still
night out there
where the world
is a collision
of consequences

to brood
is to invent the
shape of expired time

I am hinged
to the pleasure
of forgetting,
my mouth is the grave
where I buried
mystery.

Nihilistic Poetry

tiny light

buddhism in poetry

find
the springing
color

the neutral
infant that
rests weightless
as light on the
palm

emerge
and glimpse
the impact
between
breakthroughs

ascend
like sexual smoke
into the notion
of emptiness

leap into
an aura of feathers
when the thought
departs

sit between
two naked fires

neither assume
the primitive illusion
of a total universe
nor entertain
the harmony
of its idea

listen for the echo
of the beginning

and the drunken
river of time
that travels
the ancient wrinkle
of being

may shrivel
into a single
drop of stillness.

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

a stroll

brevity of life

I observe man
as an attempt
as pantomime
as desperate confabulation
to be what it knows
it cannot be

a perfectly trimmed
beard
a perfectly shaved
pussy

a chameleon’s last
color to camouflage
its lust
and most importantly,
its fear

I conceive mankind
as if it were the most
embellished monument

and while I walk
under its cool shadow
I reflect:

its brevity compels
me to hate it

its meaninglessness compels
me to love it.

 

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry