Hope on my hair

Hope slithered down the wall to my left,

she had two long antennae and whoosh

she jumped on me or so it seemed

at first I couldn’t tell exactly where she landed

my left thigh was my first guess, but looking closely

she was not there.  Finally, I saw her

not on me, but at the base of my office chair

playing, gliding from one side to another,

I raised my sight to keep writing this, now

I look down again, Hope is gone.

I look around, she moves swiftly and likes to fly

she is green and fragile like a crystal, so I am wary

my clumsy feet could crush her to death; at length

I see something move, far off near the window… but

no, it’s just a fly preying on an old leftover.

So, I stand up with hands on my hips,

I look up, down, to the side, my back, my feet,

she is nowhere to be found.

I come back, write a few more lines and I spot her

next to my ear – she sits at the chair’s top,

she’s playful and hops on me

she is walking all over me, it tickles.

After a while she seems to settle on my mess of a hair

I can feel individual fibers twitch at each of her steps

where will she go, I imagine you asking,

into my ear, into my skull?

I’m going leave her alone, playing, wandering atop

my jungle hair.

I will probably slowly forget her, get accustomed to her

pranks and romp. One day, tomorrow perhaps,

a gushing wind will break my gloomy meditations

and I will, in shock, gently touch my hair

to find Hope,

still sitting there.

My mirror

What was it that you said?

  am I still not inaccessibly alone

imagining hordes of men and women

   conjuring movements of civilizations

as the smoky characters of a dream

     as the twisted story of a hallucination

is that your echo by the candlelight?
 

   how can a voice enter this airless chamber

in the skintight solitude of my nullity

corner

    my acute angle

 a point without length, without breadth, without breath

           breathe, did you say?

where comes that voice

     the invisible companion

             hidden behind layers of insensitivity

how can something delicate survive

       near my poisonous skin…
 

am I still not alone

    dreaming worlds and stars

are you there, 

     my mirror, my love?

Nihilistic Poetry

Chronology

I was reading a poem by Bukowski

       It is called “jam”

I read a few lines, pondered

        watched outside the window

then resumed reading, while I was still

     light-blind

suddenly, a tiny speck on the page

       moved

it was green, it was alive

as my vision came to normal

I could see the insect

– wasn’t sure which kind –

the little one walked on the page

stepping over an “s” first

then a “w” but turned back

then came down to the word

      “same”

and headed to the edge of the page. 

I finished the poem, and thought to myself:

 

“This Bukowski is really good” 

 It was the first “Buck” poem

I ever read.

Mantra — field of happening


Be. Let whatever happens, come to pass.

     To be: embraced by a field of happening.

There is nothing imperfect, even contradiction

   and desire – let it all come.

Allow motes of dust to float

          the heaviest pain to sink

there is nothing at all that does not belong –

     let anger and irritation play their part

but release them and go on.

Close your eyes and dig deep.

Study the phenomenology of thoughts

              the strange ocean of being

overpowering pain, elusive pleasures

  

              Be. Embrace the field of happening.

 

More Poems

More or Less

Twilight and morning are now irresistible  

    they hang above like motherless children 

there is no reason to believe in one or the other 

           all the insects swarm this local abyss 

fortunate, for us, all minutes randomly orbit an hour 

    anywhere is home, or else, unfettered lives would not be possible 

  reentering again a field of silences 

          morning or night or true or false 

were all excluded 

             an intimate void 

more or less… yours.

Infinity

There is no place to start
 

     a beginning point

an igniting flame.

There is a Rorschach blot  

             a streaming dream of structure

a finite accomplishment; 

          surrounded by infinite reach. 

 If you start from this,

      then anything is possible.

My chest can suddenly burst open, 

       and twigs may grow.

Impossibility is an illusion.

              A repeated illustration

of what’s real;
  

         keeps infinity from shining forth.

 

 

 

Useless Poetry

The Gap

 

I couldn’t lie

 or distort the truth

when I tell you that seven seagulls

–   not six or eight – I counted,

    took flight in the direction of the moon

and that the water was slightly offering an insult

  with its restlessness and simple undulations

I suddenly felt as at the bottom of a gap

    a precipice that links two different lands

behind me everything that is

  before me everything that could be

I was inside the great hole that separates the two

  and it didn’t seem fair to build a bridge

sauntering from fact to possibility;

      to cross this gap

I felt

  requires the courage of a climb –

to create a new fact

     demands a start from the lowest point

to climb up again in rags

    to emerge from the deep

after the torture of darkness has engaged with us…

only then can the gap be closed!

 

 

 

Virgin World

The world is brand new!

     everything in it exists

they all exist

everything was born now

  the green little moss between two round rocks

      the small hairy fibers of dust

the orange flame from this candle

the smooth nail on this finger

everything is new

     visiting for a first time

they all exist
violently

        enthusiastically

I have just been born

      how close is everything

               everything has a glimmer

I reach out…

 

 

          a virgin world.

 

 

Modern Poetry

Before the end…

A flag out in the open,

     a powerful symbol,

a common faith…outshining this confusion.

We were all looking around for such a thing,

     we were all calling out for one unifying gift

Where is it?

             And who’s found it?

I can’t find it… and nobody talks about it.

  A secret search; shameful, sacrilegious

If all these tall buildings were to go

        and we need no more to be free

What do we do then?

I dreamt we were all screaming out of pure ecstasy

            “we’ve found it, we’ve found it!”

people would cry…

an undreamt-of happiness

         proper of madmen

could it be true?

A paralyzed world, frozen in astonishment…

A single instant before we wake up:  and then?

Nightmare’s Pendulum

I am constantly disappearing…

   echoing faint voices, distant howls

together with dust

       together with silence’s gaze

watching the black oblivion hanging

                       like a nightmare’s pendulum

on these modern walls

 

            ask yourself now

should we celebrate our meaninglessness

             or despair from our short-lived sojourn
Are these darkest skies, games to play

 

        the cries of hunger and misery – unreal songs

spoken winds from distant tribesmen

       

               light, weightless
as unchanging light-bulbs circled by ghostly moths

 

         humans are mist

shallow shadows built to dream

                   and float about unending abysses
 

 

 

so close to the edge of madness – mothers reply

      hold my hand, while we both come undone

consumed by the selfless void, our friend eternally:
 

 

 

                         wasteland of forms