when the mind speaks
When the mind speaks
Poetry is immensely personal. I hide behind
storytelling, not talking about my feelings
but the sensibility of others.
What happens has nothing to do with me, the onlooker
the observer, like an architect surveying a building
and finding the house wrongly designed.
I don’t mind if the building has doors and windows
and are watertight, I gladly move in, love is
another country as passion is an ember of an ancient fire.
You say I’m a liar who tells the truth using the passage
of time as my mentor.
“Once upon a time, there was a cobbler…” There is not
a cobbler, but someone else timeless as history
written by those who weren’t there.
My writing is mundane, like a forest if they are not
so big I can’t find my way out
Sometimes it happens, and breaths of death come
into my mind, upsetting the delicate balance
between life and no life.
I’m not an intellectual reading a book as a pensum
to an exam, there will be no trail of titles
When I have gone.
I like flowers, but dislike flowery poems. I find them
artificial, as Gertrude Stein said,”
A rose is a rose.”
But of course, a rose signifies much more.
While not waiting for Godot, I will write some more lies
as long as I can.
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