going back to school
Everyday I fail to love. I kept thanking my God for teaching me how to love, when he sent a beautiful man my way, encouraged me to love against all odds, overcome my habit of always looking after the well-being of the fist sized flesh beating between my bones. And I thought I have progressed in my learning. And I thought my learning great, that I now know something that many others don’t,…
the Myth of Mine
Mine – belonging to myself:
E.g. this country is my “habitual place of residence”.
That much is true. Not: my home. That much
demands more, such as: belonging of the self.
Soon I’m leaving (and the semantic
of what’s mine or of me is a matter
not of mine nor of me anymore)
But before departing, there is one,
at most two, more returns
to the poetry section of this borrowed nation’s
library I can…
Do you know why birth is so painful? It is because birth is a letting go, a breaking free as one life detaches itself from another. And yet it is only the mother that feels the pain, or if the new life does, we hardly remember it. Birth is painful for the mother who has nurtured the new life within her for nine long months. No matter how beautifully her stomach transforms into a smooth round…
It was early Sunday evening. Before going to church that day I received a message from an old friend. Well ok, not that old. I had known him for less than a year at that point, and yet because we did not see each other often simply because we lived out of the others’ main orbit of existence and because I was actually rather fond of him and wished that we actually had a more strongly…
I say we have a say in this
have been invented.
What is it compared
to the hourglass
our need for time
which does not
fills an emptiness
with grains of sand
you learn to love
and then runs out.
Time waits for no man
is a lie.
You can let it rest.
Rest a while,
savour the fullness
of what it left behind
until you’re ready
to turn it over
for time to…
A poem was born like a loose thread
from the intricate tapestry of another,
a master’s. I read her poem out loud.
Now, I pull the thread, found it split
in two, one penned down, another sung
Once, I wrote to run away
from the daily drumming
of people parading
out in the streets.
Though you will never meet this poem’s
twin, know, dear reader, that is was she
who saved me from the skin-shearing
Shapeless moon patch of dead
grass cut skin on my back gauzy
fabric dress not made
for the occasion
It is the same moon, though aged
by more lunatic nights. Same spot in the park,
only then more alive, like you and me
when we were young and did
not care whether we dressed properly
for any occasion.
Some things don’t change, I admit
like the smell of dew after midnight.