history of the abode

there_was_a_time

There was home.

Clay closed around
terrestrial things.

There was a time.

When we were burning,
working under the
astronomy of the leaves.

There was a tool
and we planned like kings
some horizon for our blood.

There was house.

A storm made of war
like a word made of hell.

There was a continent.
A march across a broad
month in groups of large
silver stars.

There was a trauma.
Mucous like iron
in the continuous
light of the extinct.

There was a mountain.
An absolute struggle
where almost cosmos.

There was a square.
Where mystery was
a brilliant white arc.

There was a home.

When purpose and space
were known a hundred
years ago.

There was a home.

When water was the only
line of music under
the silence

of the cloud.

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

Travel: I wanted mystery

Shiva_elephanta_caves_mumbai

I wanted mystery.
Huge black eyes
drawn to a mystic smoke.
The electricity of the rock.
The mantra of the beast.
I wanted to be crushed
and cursed by the flames of misery.
I come to India to hunt
for the invisible possibility.
To cease traveling in a vehicle of thought-
to walk on the scorching embers of intuition.
I wanted to drown in a river and resurface
as an absolute beginner.
I came and saw the mystery.
I came to see the truth
that there is no truth,
written in the eternal language
of their sacred eyes.
I came to India to tie all the threads
of incense around my restless soul.
Here I am.

Contemporary Poetry

unknowingness

unknown nature

Our current knowledge
will be clear
to be no more
than a droplet
within an immeasurable
ocean of unknowingness –
we pretend on this earth
to know more than we
know not
we dispel mystery
because we have
a few theories
and laws of Nature
as a poet I seek
that vaster sphere
of Nature Unknown
I do not call it
divine
but because of its
opulent mystery,
I deem it
sacred.

 

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

arch

mystic poetry

It was not yet summer
when the light dissolved
absolutely over my tongue

I had to return to the past
as if digging
a ruthless hole in my skin
my veins my bones my sky

will the black worm
eat consume digest
reinvent me?

death is the smoke
we breathe in
to unfold like a cluster
of manifestation

passively
the dream
reposes inside the
shell of reality

in one drop
of philosophy
the solitude
is assuaged

but the aperture
the encounter
the expanse
available only
through the pristine
ache of mystery
and its pilgrimage
found in an alighting
morsel of
beauty.

Nihilistic Poetry

drops of truth (a translation)

drops of truth

I have felt the temptation to exist
as oblique impressions of black mystery
on the muted mantle of a desert

I have felt the necessity of vanishing –
diving in the diaphanous ocean of death
in search of its currents of agile repose

I have felt the secrecy of the soul
it moves as a needle marking seconds
over the limpid circle of silence

I have felt the province of oblivion
as drops of dawn attached to the crystal
of my eyes when I contemplate – truth.

 

 

 

historical origins

History Poetry

it was history
excoriating those
words
their skin of wood and soft metal
it is war
that has arrested the direction
of the winds
it began when red mouths
served as riverbed
to a stone law
it was in a dark month
that a saint
stretched the shadow of the spirit
it is your strange voice
that coils an audible mystery
round all the things
that are yet to come.
 

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