The moon now is
Chiseled,
Shriveled to a
Shadow of an arc;
There it flickers,
Pierced through
These inked skies,
Looking upon
Sounds and streets,
Blotted out.
Gates are bolted,
Stars sharpened,
Lamentings seethe
Below.
Scribes sit alert,
Shadows succumb to
Substance,
Yet the sibyl still
Sings
At dawn.
The sibyl still
Sings
At dawn
While others roam across
Those violet skies:
“It’s far away, so far away,
We cannot reach it,”
They cry.
The stars, hoodwinked,
Stare at the sterling sword
Dangling in the sky.
It glows pale now.
Each new dawn will
Make it bloom
Till it becomes blunt,
And these eager ones
Will catch it no more.
Still the sibyl
Sings
At dawn.
Still the sibyl
Sings
At dawn
As sleepers awake.
The moon bloats
And staggers away,
“Why it’s so fat and full,
Like a blotch in the sky.”
The stars feel sympathy.
The moon, and others, float
Across their tides;
The pens scribble fast.
Dungeons bloodshot
Fume their cauldrons –
Soon it will be time
To unleash that red tide
And the sun will bleed.
And the sibyl still
Sings
At dawn.
At dawn
Sings
The sibyl still
While the moon peels off and
Prunes,
“Look, it’s a blade again,
Away, away, it might catch us,”
They cry.
The sibyl laughs.
The shadows sigh and stumble,
The dungeons roar and rumble:
Soon the sun will rise red,
All threads, black and white
Will unravel as shreds
For all to catch.
The sibyl unsheathes
Its wings,
Gyres in its cage
And stares.
“I am blind, I am blind –
What noise rises from below.
The beasts are loose.
I am blinded,
Only shadows and sleep lurk here.”
24 Sha‘ban 1430
16 August 2009
Showing posts with label Verse. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Verse. Show all posts
Friday, October 16, 2009
Running after
So we peruse through passages,
Those stubborn asymptotes that
Snail towards eternity.
And then we plot each path,
As a perfect perforation
On paper to admire
A pattern that we knit through.
Neat. Precise, plagiarizing
The mechanics of the cosmos.
How dare we unreel darkness
Only to see better.
But then, how often is perfection
Willing to have itself imitated.
How often does the mirror speak truly
To that which stares back?
It merely frames what can be
Reached.
So then shall we splinter illusion
To find its own shadow across dark, deep skies.
A bottle full of ink, a parchment pale;
Each slivered phrase is a firework
Blotting my eternity, confusing me
To believe that certainty is only
A galaxy away.
22 July, 2007
Those stubborn asymptotes that
Snail towards eternity.
And then we plot each path,
As a perfect perforation
On paper to admire
A pattern that we knit through.
Neat. Precise, plagiarizing
The mechanics of the cosmos.
How dare we unreel darkness
Only to see better.
But then, how often is perfection
Willing to have itself imitated.
How often does the mirror speak truly
To that which stares back?
It merely frames what can be
Reached.
So then shall we splinter illusion
To find its own shadow across dark, deep skies.
A bottle full of ink, a parchment pale;
Each slivered phrase is a firework
Blotting my eternity, confusing me
To believe that certainty is only
A galaxy away.
22 July, 2007
Anodyne
It stuck in his throat, he said.
Lamentings poured, silence bled
Yet there came that Porter
To narrate where it all led.
Try prayer, try harder, she said,
‘Despondency is a sin’.
I fumbled an answer
Yet there was no crime to dread.
But You have said it’s narrow.
I am towed forward, slow.
And the path seems to stretch
To a White Light far aglow.
I have dared to crawl forward,
To see, share what lies ahead
Yet I know not, can’t tell
If Your Sign I have misread.
What does my amen conclude.
I see shadow, stars hoodwinked.
I know not where must I tread.
Lead me, as needle Pulls thread.
6 May 2008.
Lamentings poured, silence bled
Yet there came that Porter
To narrate where it all led.
Try prayer, try harder, she said,
‘Despondency is a sin’.
I fumbled an answer
Yet there was no crime to dread.
But You have said it’s narrow.
I am towed forward, slow.
And the path seems to stretch
To a White Light far aglow.
I have dared to crawl forward,
To see, share what lies ahead
Yet I know not, can’t tell
If Your Sign I have misread.
What does my amen conclude.
I see shadow, stars hoodwinked.
I know not where must I tread.
Lead me, as needle Pulls thread.
6 May 2008.
A Whiter Shade of Pale
“Must be strangely exciting to watch the stoic squirm.
Must be somewhat heartening to watch shepherd meet Shepherd.”
- Alanis Morisette, Uninvited
These cryptic compass points
That plot the corners of this paper universe,
Confuse me now.
I am to wait
Till a fuller moon, deep in its white,
Ruffles oceans and lets violet
Ink my whiteness.
All is blank – like snow plastered
Over shores and sands.
This sky that frames these corners
Is also whitewashed.
A lavish blandness sweeps
These dull motes, perforating the glass.
Each step has to be tapped with precision.
I have new socks on. I leave no rude imprints
As I trespass, gyrating these listening skies,
These frozen sands and fenced shores.
I am cold: this bloodless sliver
Of a moon mocks me with its grim grin.
This should be the correct cosmos,
With its careful motes (silent yet).
I thought I heard a call,
Thrown Back in ripples from those colder corridors,
Rising and roaming, as these oceans spin
Like a careless dreamer. It is clear enough.
But this whiteness is too bright,
Too noisy for me to call back.
Maybe, if I root myself, right here,
The snow might ripen to earth.
Maybe, the motes inscribe a pattern across.
Maybe then, I’ll read my name,
Black or blue.
And then, I can unfold each shore,
And take these wet socks off.
I am tempted
To tear open this envelope,
Sealed with this pale moon.
I am terrified
To understand the meaning
Of my unlettered universe
Resting inside these paper horizons.
The glass might prick my chilblains.
7 April 2007
Must be somewhat heartening to watch shepherd meet Shepherd.”
- Alanis Morisette, Uninvited
These cryptic compass points
That plot the corners of this paper universe,
Confuse me now.
I am to wait
Till a fuller moon, deep in its white,
Ruffles oceans and lets violet
Ink my whiteness.
All is blank – like snow plastered
Over shores and sands.
This sky that frames these corners
Is also whitewashed.
A lavish blandness sweeps
These dull motes, perforating the glass.
Each step has to be tapped with precision.
I have new socks on. I leave no rude imprints
As I trespass, gyrating these listening skies,
These frozen sands and fenced shores.
I am cold: this bloodless sliver
Of a moon mocks me with its grim grin.
This should be the correct cosmos,
With its careful motes (silent yet).
I thought I heard a call,
Thrown Back in ripples from those colder corridors,
Rising and roaming, as these oceans spin
Like a careless dreamer. It is clear enough.
But this whiteness is too bright,
Too noisy for me to call back.
Maybe, if I root myself, right here,
The snow might ripen to earth.
Maybe, the motes inscribe a pattern across.
Maybe then, I’ll read my name,
Black or blue.
And then, I can unfold each shore,
And take these wet socks off.
I am tempted
To tear open this envelope,
Sealed with this pale moon.
I am terrified
To understand the meaning
Of my unlettered universe
Resting inside these paper horizons.
The glass might prick my chilblains.
7 April 2007
Monday, September 14, 2009
Riddles in the Dark
So he sang
And had each chord
Sound and string
Into what was Music
To Your Ears.
He sang and they all
Sang with him.
Despite the throne,
He would sit on the ferny floor,
Where insects would crawl,
Where trees stood firm,
Where mountains were rooted.
And his voice would
Defy gravity
And it would reach You.
And so You Heard.
I know no psalms.
I have no harp.
I suffer
From stage fright.
I have famously fumbled,
Stumbled and stumped
Over what I knew
But have now somewhat forgotten.
What is this secret Chord?
I heard It too – and It
Shook me.
My silences and shadows
Surrendered.
And I would find solace
That I did not even seek.
I seek it now.
What part do I play –
I just keep missing the cue.
I stand here
Now – stiff, awkward, unnecessary,
A prop catching
No attention.
I am afraid, I say, afraid.
And now, quiet,
Miming with the same shadows
That deepen and darken
Till I see, hear, feel,
Nothing.
How much darkness
Does one need to see
Light again.
How much silence
Do I need to hear
That Music again.
It’s all a clatter now.
Empty tin cans and glass bottles and paper cups
Chatting and shouting and scuffling
Together, at the same time,
Together, in the dark.
Should I go and seek
Now a lab, a studio,
Or a kitchen
Where I can find even a sliver
Of that Chord?
Could I steal It and keep It
As my own?
Or will You chop my fingers?
Take my hand – I am afraid – Take my hand.
It’s so dark and noisy.
I know not where to turn.
How much could the blind and deaf do?
Dare I scream?
Who will hear me – I cannot hear myself.
Take my hand,
Lead me, too – and I will run.
10 January 2009
And had each chord
Sound and string
Into what was Music
To Your Ears.
He sang and they all
Sang with him.
Despite the throne,
He would sit on the ferny floor,
Where insects would crawl,
Where trees stood firm,
Where mountains were rooted.
And his voice would
Defy gravity
And it would reach You.
And so You Heard.
I know no psalms.
I have no harp.
I suffer
From stage fright.
I have famously fumbled,
Stumbled and stumped
Over what I knew
But have now somewhat forgotten.
What is this secret Chord?
I heard It too – and It
Shook me.
My silences and shadows
Surrendered.
And I would find solace
That I did not even seek.
I seek it now.
What part do I play –
I just keep missing the cue.
I stand here
Now – stiff, awkward, unnecessary,
A prop catching
No attention.
I am afraid, I say, afraid.
And now, quiet,
Miming with the same shadows
That deepen and darken
Till I see, hear, feel,
Nothing.
How much darkness
Does one need to see
Light again.
How much silence
Do I need to hear
That Music again.
It’s all a clatter now.
Empty tin cans and glass bottles and paper cups
Chatting and shouting and scuffling
Together, at the same time,
Together, in the dark.
Should I go and seek
Now a lab, a studio,
Or a kitchen
Where I can find even a sliver
Of that Chord?
Could I steal It and keep It
As my own?
Or will You chop my fingers?
Take my hand – I am afraid – Take my hand.
It’s so dark and noisy.
I know not where to turn.
How much could the blind and deaf do?
Dare I scream?
Who will hear me – I cannot hear myself.
Take my hand,
Lead me, too – and I will run.
10 January 2009
Running After
So we peruse through passages,
Those stubborn asymptotes that
Snail towards eternity.
And then we plot each path,
As a perfect perforation
On paper to admire
A pattern that we knit through.
Neat. Precise, plagiarizing
The mechanics of the cosmos.
How dare we unreel darkness
Only to see better.
But then, how often is perfection
Willing to have itself imitated.
How often does the mirror speak truly
To that which stares back?
It merely frames what can be
Reached.
So then shall we splinter illusion
To find its own shadow across dark, deep skies.
A bottle full of ink, a parchment pale;
Each slivered phrase is a firework
Blotting my eternity, confusing me
To believe that certainty is only
A galaxy away.
22 July, 2007
Those stubborn asymptotes that
Snail towards eternity.
And then we plot each path,
As a perfect perforation
On paper to admire
A pattern that we knit through.
Neat. Precise, plagiarizing
The mechanics of the cosmos.
How dare we unreel darkness
Only to see better.
But then, how often is perfection
Willing to have itself imitated.
How often does the mirror speak truly
To that which stares back?
It merely frames what can be
Reached.
So then shall we splinter illusion
To find its own shadow across dark, deep skies.
A bottle full of ink, a parchment pale;
Each slivered phrase is a firework
Blotting my eternity, confusing me
To believe that certainty is only
A galaxy away.
22 July, 2007
Q and Pi
How farther did those Hands Stretch,
Etching through blank darkness
Corridors and passages through skies and seas,
Dissected into sections – so many arcs –
Spiraling through Light and shadow.
And so Motion began.
How much did that Pen scribe
Those black alphabets on pale parchment,
And phrases cohered into meaningful
Metaphors that speak of the Truth alone.
And so Conclusion began.
I take the same compass.
I recall many dervishing similes.
These two arcs can only trace a complete shadow
Concluding itself into ceaseless repetition.
I use the same ink.
I think of brimming libraries
Packed with so many words and phrases
Fumbling, stumbling over mere translation.
Let all these pages elude the grasp of your thumb,
And see the delirium the rustle would whisper.
Let all these arcs arch over your eyes,
And see the distance the circumference would unfold.
We are mere tangents trying to edge closer,
As quickly as precisely as we can,
To our Watchful Center,
Each distance severed into several halves,
Each leap only barely touching, not grasping
Till the Center would pull each of us
Back, from smoke to blind mirrors,
To see, read and
Know what lay beyond
Each seemingly impossible distance.
21 February 2008
Etching through blank darkness
Corridors and passages through skies and seas,
Dissected into sections – so many arcs –
Spiraling through Light and shadow.
And so Motion began.
How much did that Pen scribe
Those black alphabets on pale parchment,
And phrases cohered into meaningful
Metaphors that speak of the Truth alone.
And so Conclusion began.
I take the same compass.
I recall many dervishing similes.
These two arcs can only trace a complete shadow
Concluding itself into ceaseless repetition.
I use the same ink.
I think of brimming libraries
Packed with so many words and phrases
Fumbling, stumbling over mere translation.
Let all these pages elude the grasp of your thumb,
And see the delirium the rustle would whisper.
Let all these arcs arch over your eyes,
And see the distance the circumference would unfold.
We are mere tangents trying to edge closer,
As quickly as precisely as we can,
To our Watchful Center,
Each distance severed into several halves,
Each leap only barely touching, not grasping
Till the Center would pull each of us
Back, from smoke to blind mirrors,
To see, read and
Know what lay beyond
Each seemingly impossible distance.
21 February 2008
Dyslexia
“Bring forth men-children only!” [Macbeth, I.vii]
Speech stammers now.
A galaxy rips into pieces of constellations,
Stars straying about, perforating the floor with
A delirium of fireworks;
Splinters of broken mirrors
Pierce my eyes, peeling off strange patterns.
I see nothing – This is not what I heard –
Did it speak to me, before, this White sky
Collapsed onto a murky plain.
Pages and pages were laid before me.
Crystals that I should have clasped
Safe, are now lost.
It is too dark for me to Read, again.
This ink stares hard at me.
I can feel it, grinning now, as if I
Misunderstood the joke.
I am embarrassed now.
Let me shroud my face with blood.
These slivers prick my fingers –
So much mess on the floor.
Gather it all – let me arrange these fumbling
Phrases into some order.
These shadows clot into darkness.
And my hands smell of stale blood.
27 January, 2008
Speech stammers now.
A galaxy rips into pieces of constellations,
Stars straying about, perforating the floor with
A delirium of fireworks;
Splinters of broken mirrors
Pierce my eyes, peeling off strange patterns.
I see nothing – This is not what I heard –
Did it speak to me, before, this White sky
Collapsed onto a murky plain.
Pages and pages were laid before me.
Crystals that I should have clasped
Safe, are now lost.
It is too dark for me to Read, again.
This ink stares hard at me.
I can feel it, grinning now, as if I
Misunderstood the joke.
I am embarrassed now.
Let me shroud my face with blood.
These slivers prick my fingers –
So much mess on the floor.
Gather it all – let me arrange these fumbling
Phrases into some order.
These shadows clot into darkness.
And my hands smell of stale blood.
27 January, 2008
Rimless: A Portrait of Sleep
It was a different dawn.
Outside, colors ripened
Beckoning a day of blackened,
Forgotten memory.
Pictures formed framelessly –
Locations rushed, jumbled,
Faces flashed, some followed,
Disjointed flesh and bone.
I knew the bricked walls of our eroding castle.
I knew the marble stairs of that quiet chapel,
Knew the grounds, both visited and unvisited,
Compounds and courtyards, corridors that continued
Through the delirium.
And now the palette of a new twilight glistened.
Blood warm in a goblet, a sky lavishly inked.
Another courtyard, a mosque, a street, a channel
About to tip over, and the spectrum shall spill
Through a continuum.
Images, phrases, form
Were strangely socketed,
Neatly wrapped, then revealed
Like syntax that ordains
The timing of tenses.
Territories unmapped,
Categories confused
Yet I traced momentum.
The unmindful iris
Can compose such colors,
Can call on the unseen
To seek resolution.
The paper is still white.
Skies knock at glass windows.
Vision blinks, then dwindles.
This blindness is too bright.
9th Muharram 1428
29th January 2007.
Outside, colors ripened
Beckoning a day of blackened,
Forgotten memory.
Pictures formed framelessly –
Locations rushed, jumbled,
Faces flashed, some followed,
Disjointed flesh and bone.
I knew the bricked walls of our eroding castle.
I knew the marble stairs of that quiet chapel,
Knew the grounds, both visited and unvisited,
Compounds and courtyards, corridors that continued
Through the delirium.
And now the palette of a new twilight glistened.
Blood warm in a goblet, a sky lavishly inked.
Another courtyard, a mosque, a street, a channel
About to tip over, and the spectrum shall spill
Through a continuum.
Images, phrases, form
Were strangely socketed,
Neatly wrapped, then revealed
Like syntax that ordains
The timing of tenses.
Territories unmapped,
Categories confused
Yet I traced momentum.
The unmindful iris
Can compose such colors,
Can call on the unseen
To seek resolution.
The paper is still white.
Skies knock at glass windows.
Vision blinks, then dwindles.
This blindness is too bright.
9th Muharram 1428
29th January 2007.
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