Like upturned earth on haunted eves for which the beasts replete do seeth toward crisp remoteness the zepher stone burgeons and clasps those boney hands and ushers toward us. Indeed, the fallow are now spent, they rent those waters for healthier hands, but pure and brilliant are not synonymous with a hot-to-trot village filled to the top.
On The Wind
Never feeling
more alone
I could taste
the remoteness
As it lingered
on my tongue
Teasing hunger
most tart
Never being
more unknown
The detachment
left my senses
As I drifted
on the wind
Like an echo
— in the dark
**
Ancient Bodies
Fixing
what wasn’t broken
My crusade
soldiered on
Past bodies
killed ancient
On battlefields
— long won
**
Taking My Hand
Where does the moon
try to lead me
that orb of reflection
and light
Taking my hand
its will to command
time ...
—the servant of night
**
New Truth
Skirting the line
of wrong and right
Scaling the cliffs
of darkness and light
Climbing upward
not one look down
Perched and waiting
the truth — unfound
**
Nativity Bandhan
Stranger in a strange city.
Protect yourself.
Wear a mask.
Protect from whom?
One virus makes me foreign.
Unwanted, unnecessary and mean.
Suddenly I am an alien.
In the city alien, familiar city alien.
In my alien country.
An Island within the Country.
Feeling of shame, humiliation.
I realize the remoteness in me.
Muted, starved, exhausted.
My labour is what is wanted,
Not I.
Market-based labour market.
Daily wager, coolies,
Adhoc workers, contractual staff.
Long roads,
Sleeping rails
Killing fields.
Dancing death.
Fear of dying 'here'.
There should be four to carry.
'Why was I born?' feeling.
Blame poverty, blame the city.
Why don't 'they' suffer?
The rustic place which drove me out
builds the bandhan.
I know everyone.
No one will chase me out.
There or not there
I eat something all the time.
My mean labour earns me respect.
All are my bandhan
No man is foreign.
This is my nativity.
That night
with a warm, bitter scent,
I watched the sad sky.
Your footsteps echoed far away,
and your hand, like mist—
I couldn’t touch it, only feel it;
but you were already gone.
You taste like goodbye.
Happy Hour is one drink short
of a buzz.
She’s found her remote
it was in the back of her mind
where remoteness begins.
It’s been a tough year so far
what with all this
apocalyptic going on,
but that’s not why
she changed the channel in her head,
it’s what I unthinkingly said
while swallowing down
one last slurp of margarita.
It was the words
that slid out of my mouth
that triggered her to turn me off,
and watch a revenge movie instead.
I'm determined that tomorrow
I will mix the drinks
and we won’t run dry,
just as long
as I can find a liquor store
amongst the rubble of our lives.
in the remote remoteness
of somewhere remote
flew a fly
this fly had realised gravity,
relativity and string theory
a professor and physicist
wise to everyone else
in the dark darkness
of somewhere dark
sped a spider
this spider had mastered
a multitude of languages
a remarkable multilinguist
understanding everyone else
in the open openness
of somewhere open
mouthed a moth
this moth recited poetry
of a profound profundity
an awe-inspiring poet
warming everyone else
in the damp dampness
of somewhere damp
sludged a slug
this slug was just a slug
but more than a slug to others
wise, understanding, warming
a friend to everyone else
Antique lace
plastic face
so unnatural
trying to laugh
whilst in a difficult place
you cant change me
in something im not
wild dancing on the green vetch
secure in remoteness
as the world rises and falls
chilled as a crystal belfry
of a glazen star
Sweet fantasies of the imagination,
be the source of serene meditation
steeped in realism without dreaming;
surrender all to the senses awakening!
Sweet fantasies of the imagination,
draw each soul to self-illumination;
allow it to find places of remoteness,
there serenity will revive gladness!
Sweet fantasies of the imagination,
do dreams spark the same ambition
when they are crushed by unfairness?
Could they be brought to wholeness?
Sweet fantasies of the imagination,
wandering thoughts seek revelation;
let them capture the logical knowledge
before it's entirely lost to battles of rage!
In the remoteness of a shady forest,
where human presence is too rare,
wild deer have found a home to rest
and there they hide from their hunter
be it some heartless man, an eagle or bear;
they stay closer to their vigilant mother!
Small leaping deer follow her everywhere,
and patently she guides them teaching safety,
they have eaten enough leaves
from the thick berries shrubs;
what they miss is a sparkling brook
nearby to quench their thirst,
will they settle for warm milk,
or go hungry and feel worst?
No, they grunt and don't want only water:
the doe stares at them and leads them away,
realizing that hunger makes them weak!
They have gotten away from their hunter
quite a few times, using the few tricks
they learned quickly from mother deer;
can they be as lucky as they were in tender years?
Somehow, they must survive in restricted freedom,
not ever being caught by roaring predators that loom
behind trees and be killed by their deadly spear
in the peaceful wilderness that turns its deaf ear!
He lived according to his creed,
he missed events that caused endless tears;
he was only present in tragedies...
did he really expect to be freed
from foolish thoughts that didn't know extremes,
showing no effort to make them realistic dreams?
Lonely is the one who counts days
and watches parades of laughing clowns,
giving him a momentary relief from sadness;
he won't march and reveal all feelings
with a laughter that breaks screams:
he has chosen solitude over friends!
Even now he regrets he wasn't the best,
but a mediocre man struggling and still wishing
he can own all without dedication and sacrifice;
all he does is curse fate and beat his chest...
while other keep their faith and go on living:
can he be kind to himself and not pay any price?
Lonely is the one who counts days
reading books instead of writing plays
to experience human consciousness;
how long can he live in remoteness?
Go and find him where he stands,
talk him out of painful loneliness!
Connected
Intimate, Direct
Cultivating, Engaging, Relating
Affinity, Propinquity, Remoteness, Aversion
Rejecting, Evading, Separating
Withdrawn, Deflect
Disconnected
I have created for myself
a lonely place of despised remoteness;
many pictures I've taken off my shelf,
running away from humankind,
always refusing to settle down,
leaving no traces of my travels...
my identity remains unknown:
thinking I won't be found!
I have taken my retriever Alfie,
my suitcase and a few books;
soon new horizons to discover,
new faces to greet without doubts,
looking out for menacing glances.
and forward I go sensing dangers,
seeking a hut shaded by a huge tree,
hearing the bubbling water of a river!
the remoteness of our lives
leaves us vulnerable to beleaguered
domestico-socio lies from out past.
free spirit offspring suffer the outrageous
slings and arrows of parental misfortunes.
our love questioned existence rehearsed
weighs them down from once of constant
smiles, to frightened, forlorn, frivolous frowns.
we bathe them in our born-again baggage,
murdering their true inter-be spirit to
frenzied, postmortem parental put downs.
will we ever lean their presence is one
of holy matrimony to be-ness, to want, to plan
to have and to hold in foreverness?
Not of stupid, misguided sexual folly,
torturing them with outdated, misguided meanness?
Let us live, love, trust as they grow.
If the meek shall inherit this Earth, they
will learn to replicate our lost, latent legacies.
oneness to none-noneness to one
And the beaten go on to adultress ruin.
Behold----------another child is born.
would you also be able to cry
arriving where you called home,
seeing every empty and cold corner
without even the shadow of the one who left?
I speak of these colossal absences
hammering at every moment
a nail of anguish in the chest,
just to make it clear that absolutely everything
has lost its meaning and in the window of the planet
only a sad and desolate landscape
of remoteness reigns,
the devastated and battered land
by the sound of a wind that doesn't care to be bad,
sweeping inhumanly
the place where all the names
that you call by the same poisoned letters dwell,
the place where each new face of the days
belongs to the same ghost
that for your nightmare and torture
no longer haunts you.
Happy Hour is one drink short
of a buzz,
I try to determine the moment
it all went sour.
I’m looking into the empty glass
wondering where the ‘happy’ went,
did it dissipate on a curling lip
or a sigh?
I find the remote in the back of my mind
where remoteness lives and has its bunker.
It’s been a tough past year, and we’ve barely sipped
this new one, bad joo-joo everywhere.
what with all this apocalyptic crap going on.
Occasionally a camera will capture a look
in a strangers eyes, and I see my thoughts there.
We are all lonely inside our eyes I guess.
The barkeep picks up his tip and nods to my fading presence.
The taxi home gets lost between Reykjavik and Lahore,
we all arrive just in time to watch the day show up
on the 6 o’clock news.
Body counts and empty faces talking through mealy lips -
time for another drink.
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