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Onofre Da Ramalha Poem
The salt of their skin has its flayed
geometry, sharp crevices beneath
the classroom where my dark teeth
tried the savoury chalk and failed.
I have been a teacher for the sum
of my disjointed life; never knew
otherwise, never learnt, as I grew,
how to study the breadcrumb
where the heights have gathered.
My students, ants in my breath,
state they are builders of words
in silence and thrive, feathered
like fangless tigers, within death,
my blandest subterranean birds.
Copyright © Onofre da Ramalha | Year Posted 2024
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Details |
Onofre Da Ramalha Poem
Those tender eels you rescue by the shore
bring you empty news from the deep;
they aptly sing your sunken score,
vivid sounds from the liver of your ship.
You rely on your Sunday best to warm
your sins, fins and skin, but the heart...
the heart is scattered like the swarm
of pebbles that tear your feet apart.
Far, you glance at the fading distance,
which, in turn, presents itself at hand,
making itself unavailable in existence.
A darkest seagull hovers by, so stealth,
and you face the everchanging sand,
and you learn to woo burials, death.
Copyright © Onofre da Ramalha | Year Posted 2024
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