We once had such high zest. Then the cowards spoke. Not for heads that have forgotten heaviness. Or for the sky burnt by the sun. They spoke for themselves, and the silver-haired chorus girls that frequent their rooms – late at night. And nobody could remember how things used to be. Afterall, the wind always sounds exactly like a TV advert. Miserable, clear and never-ending.
What will it feel like to be human again? To meet and greet like bells. And become just what you have always been – a miracle. But all I see now, is a few sad poets. And what is left of eloquence. Yet, nothing is permanent. And nobody is just a symbol. Not even the sad poets.
At night time the statues come alive. Talking as though nothing ever happened. It is easy for them to forget. All those arrows shot into the hearts of the unused and buried. Nobody sees the blood anymore, anyway. And not one of them can remember, how many times the cherry trees flowered on their birthdays. Their work done, they sleep again. As though they were never born.
I wrote this poem for Teacher’s Day. I wish all the teachers, especially those I call colleagues and friends…Happy Teacher’s Day 🙏
As a teacher, I choose life. No hiding in the streets of cold frame. Or swimming in the murmuring pools of a shipwrecked world. And I dream of my students, connecting hearts to heads. Two delusions we all move among.
This deluded world. A never-ending night. Who can speak of dreams, and intimate whispers? And where I gaze in yearning. I lose myself, on the wings of a bird. With thoughts of you, so loving.
Places and names fall like glory. And I promised myself, I will make the best of the rest. Even though they don’t believe in me. I love it like this, a few places, a few names and an island passion. And when the rivers freeze into stone. I will carry the grains of my soul, back to my island passion.
The virus came. The art of losing is not hard to master, you said. I wondered what the last evening will be like? So, I thought a little. Maybe a handshake with a stranger, and a freeze on motion? The art of losing is not hard to master, you said.
Waiting for you. I look upon our meeting, the fruit of this absurdity. One day the wind blows, they say. But my love knows no time. Heaven and earth, just names. If I do not meet you again. Trust me as your poet. Our love shall burn forever.
Far from my love, my mind has no ease. A lone cloud that sails a distant sky. And the autumn, is not the autumn of the old times. Yet, the colour and beauty of your love, like a passion-flower pattern. A path out of this blackness. The lustre of this flower, a guide from island- to-island. Like a seasoned boatman, I know the goal on our path of love. A garden full of flowers, on those silky autumn nights.
A Wandering Poet 