Category: Uncategorized

Eyelashes have hid women.
Gently raise them to stars

Of a night by a pale moon.
Some are jasmines to bud

On the blouse back’s night,
With its stars flowering yet.

Old jasmines are a history.
Smell a washed out pocket.

Someone else is spinning this story,
Someone else’s story put upon you

In a most loose fitting straight jacket.
The wind blows up the hollow jacket

With you, swept off your earthly feet,
You do not get to act your own script.

The sun is a mere image in water
Or in an umbra of a day’s sinking.

We wear a sun mask half shaded
Beyond this side of the mountain.

We are the actors of our ancients,
Images we rescue from our sleep

And a common sleep of the dead,
Being born to act out the images.

(reference is to Ezra Pound’s poem Histrion)

After Rilke, you keep looking
Under the stars and beyond
Or under the old man’s bed.

Chase after Rilke’s old man.
Keep looking at stars above
Or under the old man’s bed.

Grief looks orange on sea waves,
What walking makes them seem.

That bodies are interchangeable
Is figure of speech on repeat sea.

The body is just figure of speech
When emotion is a color of dusk.

At 3 AM stars shine brightest
And then you return to sleep

Searching words in its depths
And a sea thinks vastly in sky.

Soon you’ll hear sun’s sound.
Now a body has all the words

For 3 A.M poem to take body
And poem shall escape body.

He was last seen working footpath
Looking for a word “I” in its clothes.

Statue lost ‘I” to night of confusion.
There are no dead sounds in night.

Darkness marks out the disc moon
Like a frisbee lost in the vague sky.

The “I”s are all lost in the confusion,
Having forgot their souls on bones.

(Inspired by Rilke’s poem “People at night”)

Men would walk as wet ghosts
In the holes of the sea’s vapour.

Boats would float away in sight
Seeming as rust on the horizon

And return with blue nets of fish
In the overall moisture of poetry.

His arms would flap no like
car wipers
To a desperate rain on the
asphalt road.

The man would look like
going down
Flapping arms to wave a
bye to crowd.
But he was not waving but
drowning.

(Stevie Smith’s poem “Not waving but drowning“

We would not know what came-
A catheter in a windblown bag

A yellow impure smelling death
Ticks inside , a water’s murmur.

Holy shucks,, we would almost
Hear low murmurs in cathedral.