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I received the poems on this page from Maasoom. I asked him to tell me more about himself and what inspires him.
He wrote back: “my inspirations for writing are Mitika and Sunil, my good friends, the discovery of the self
and the subsequent annihilation of it; and the air I breathe for if I am alive I must write.” Manav Sachdeva Maasoom, 27, is presently wandering in Afghanistan while working there to transfer the ownership of Afghanistan's development back to the Afghan people since May 2004. Maasoom was born and brought up in India, and moved to the U.S. when he was fifteen years of age. He has lived and worked in California, Michigan, Wisconsin, DC, and New York. Maasoom studied Poetry and Policy Studies, an independently created field, as a Master's student at SIPA, Columbia University. He also spent a summer in Greece with Harvard University's Summer Olympia Program in Comparative Cultural Studies infused in Greek poetry. Maasoom lives around the world with his base (parents' house) in New Jersey. He reads and writes poetry in English, Urdu, Punjabi, and some in Persian. Here is also a printable (RTF) version.
About his work in Afghanistan he wrote: --A Tribute to Emily Dickinson, Antonio Porchia and Rabindranath Tagore by MSMaasoom Poems inscribed, corrected, and finished in Afghanistan Lines and Letters Lost poems I (Performed at Salaam Theatre, Downtown Manhattan, Winter 2003) Shabad Shradanjali to Tagore's Gitanjali* I found for me a love, a love so great, a love so great I could not contain, could not contain and I, I was sad. But when I learned that containment, that containment and betrothal are signs not of love but of life thereafter, then I, I lost my fears, my fears of losing, of losing my love…and loved freely. And when I learned, sitting among the shoes and sheets and shards and sheer that, that the mind of man, that the mind of man too is a solo act, a solo uncontainable act, I lost my fears, my fears of losing, of losing my mind…and thought freely. And when I learned that the mosque, the mandir, the church, the shrine are all homes of God, are all homes of God and not of the priest inside, I lost my fears, my fears of not knowing, of not knowing how to pray…and entered freely And when I learned that the reservoirs of man, the inner reservoirs of man to take it, to take in, to take it in have no limits, I lost my fears, my fears of not being, of not being able to brook it…and took in freely And when I learned that I could not save, could not save, those, those that never needed to be saved, I lost my fears, my fears of not being, of not being able to save, save enough for myself, save myself…and served freely And when I learned that kindness, that kindness is not to be done to ensure, to ensure you get kindness in return, then I, I lost my fears, my fears of being, of being in their shoes some day…and shared freely And when I learned that we, we means becoming we without losing, without losing that little bit, that little bit of me, then I, I lost my fears, my fears of you, my fears of you becoming we…and wed freely And when I learned that acts of good, acts of good, acts of good need not become tokens, tokens that encash, need not become tokens that encash as good feelings in return, then I, I lost my fears, my fears of not being, of not being thanked enough, of being unappreciated…and helped freely And when I learned that feelings of worth, that feelings of worth have more to do with works of respect, producing works of respect than working for respect, then I, I lost my fears, my fears of retiring, of retiring unbeknownst …and strived freely And when I learned that giving alms is not, that giving alms is not for displaying strength, displaying strength of position or flashes of character, then I, I lost my fears, my fears of being, of being misunderstood…and gave freely And when I learned being true must not, must not be a way to ensure they speak good of you, speak good of you when you are gone, then I, I lost my fears, my fears of not, of not being able to buy their words worth…and spoke freely And when I learned that giving one's self, giving one's self in the karmic awareness that good will come upon you, will come upon you now or later by the laws of nature is even so selfish, then I, I lost my fears, my fears of not, of not being selfless enough…and rendered freely And when I learned that acts of fear, acts of fear, that acts of fear reveal more of the feared, reveal more of the feared than of the fearful, then I, I lost my fear, my fear of being, of being afraid…and feared freely *A word weave offering in loving respect and inspiration to Tagore's 1913 Nobel Prize book of songs Gitanjali II (Appearing in Tablet Spring 2005 issue) I went outside to see if God's voice was disturbing anyone III dear anooshka your emails make see watch our lives reel fix our bread oven our life will be IV dear lohiyan you seemed to me in the opening hours of the morning the embodiment of all that is beautiful V love is known in an instant... and realized over a life time VI If I slow down everything and listen I cannot move without being moved VII seek first to love then to understand VIII Lucy with her little horse-hop O my Lucy my darling my beloved my love's love's love O my Lucy O my Pappadum now you're gone I can love others for you loved me the wishes of your troubles are fulfilled IX (Appearing in Tablet Spring 2005 issue) Voices in the gullies of Kabul incoherent, muffled are gods murmuring on His children's streets X He kidnapped my silva, my milky this afternoon to have her and left me a note bequeathing a ransom of late arrival XI When in Iran I prayed to Mohammed Rasool and PEACE be upon him one asked me straight—Are you a Muslim? and I told him, with a date and water, breaking my fast I don't think Brahma would've minded XII parents talking through their children teaching unselfishness If the I is we the we is weak their own knots breaking threading woolgathers they had sown together as song once XIII a twig of grass is all I could gather for my lovely little one tonight XIV dearest anooshka thank you for your kindness that went from your hand to my hand to the hands that love this world of mine hope they'll slip some caring strains dissolve them back in yonder sands
XV preparing for hell-o-wean XXI an Indian rain fell in new york city today. and estranged ny from me to my home. i feel my country in here uncomfortably XXII a baby only hears sounds of reassurance XXIII those who don't know their trace don't seek to know their's XXIV I have learned from myself much but couldn't to myself much teach XXV when a mirror breaks a secret is bereaved when a shell breaks a journey is revealed when a lathi* breaks a scream is released when a father breaks freedom is deceived lathi* (n) : club consisting of a heavy stick (often bamboo) bound with iron; used by police in India XXVI enjoy a rich and creamy night pint of amber black drink the ritual cascade will with chilling Irish unmask perfect radiant English you I terrifying rewards we're original legendary eerie XXVII (Published in The Persistent Mirage, Issue 4, May 2005) the sheer elegance of the seagulls gliding startling the Hudson freshness of the summer's first navels XXVIII (Published in The Persistent Mirage, Issue 4, May 2005) eagles are mourning the death of a snake lions that of the zebra butchers that of the capon her parents that of her lover XXIX O blue waisted richly cheeked wayward gaited o amber lord of rain in your welcome no refrain O blue bod dusky amór fair hair locks O man upstairs of seasonal boon pour my moon, my lovely monsoon XXX O within, fill the absence of life with the arrival of two lovely poems If the lamp of remembrance begins to flicker fuel it with fill streaming from tacit eyes XXXI men walk around with boisterous laughs adorning manliness on their sleeves I walk around with ink-bled cuffs with laughter rich and smooth as wine And I too am a man when women wrote begging to please others imploring for a night of bliss I chose my kin who I had loved for years damning chances lost or cultural costs And I too am a man when unexpectedly death knocked my doors my ailing heart, it ached as never before I told my beloved who I loved as life to cry for a year but marry again And I too am a man XXXII to learn a language, language-less, as a baby to only have expressions in my heart and somebody providing the language and uttering and writing my memoirs from memory XXXIII O my Baa'lum* not the sleeping of the sounds of night nor the sleeping of the world around them it is the falling asleep of swirling voices whence bellows of your name O my Baa'lum unconsciously spring *Baa'lum—an evocative endearment in kharri boli for husband (as one's beloved) used by women in Kanpur, North India, to call out to their husbands gone on fishing or other trips afar. It is a word phrase in a specific dialect of the hindi language. XXXIV the heat of his loins fun parched foliage veiling tantalizing mass; the object of my portrayal betrays me punctured thoughts screaming heartless air I am the fakir with a luxurious flair I am the student with my heart at sea I am the poet with no pretense of class I am the anarchist with no concern of turns I am fuchsia, looking for my girdle, melting, to be seized with fruit XXXV celebrating your lavender existence I indulge in the far ends of your lips and the bottoms of your eyelids and the parting of your nostrils and the mean of your under chin and the moisture over your mammilla nips and the valleys of your face scape and the jungles of your belfry and the lobes of your rumpled rimples and the folds of your furrows and the flows of your estuary with the darkness of my shaved cast and the roots of my wizened hands and the kundalini of my spin-less spine and fragrance of my bathed bod and the the knotting of my navel and the scales of my withered woofs and the blurring of my tired eyes and the folds of my foreskin and the cream of my abdomen and the puncture of my troubled veins; I indulge, alas, in your lavender existence celebrating the freckles of my imperfection. XXXVI as I slept the sleep of a feather in flight with the world below a fallen knight streaming stars on crescent fields and guard of night had lost his sight misguide of good lone he stood and children cried as children do and saw it happen as they could piece by piece piece by piece peace to pieces as dimples deepened and trauma hurt with green fatigues snapping colored alerts cleaving banyans bursting bedrocks squashing angst in timely spurts mute star of simple bad and good let children cry as children do couldn't see it happen as they could piece by piece piece by piece peace to pieces as beloved belated and obits spurred screaming scenes as weather spewed a pandemonium chord-less struck a fainéant world doubtless whaled now bit by bit shrugging Atlas crude seeking children's smiles as well have should let feathers return on birds alas piece by piece piece by piece piece to peace XXXVII Dear Affair Kabul as you know is a lonely island with the dust sea all around. You were an oasis but as oases are, rare, timeless, sparse. I do regret that the oasis left me sooner than my heart's fill but a traveler must know only the desert is his true friend. Thus it is that I am making my peace with the land. I go atop the deserted desert hill over and above my little tin house and I see mud houses and a layer of unsettled dust above the city. Atop the hill I take the wind that is clear and closer to the air of yore. I look around and see fortresses some mid-20th, others younger or older. I entered one as it beckoned and I found scattered, used shells, canons, gunpowder bullets, and machine oil-pellets. They spoke to me and I spoke to them. A lovely field trip to times of seige and Amanullah Khan this would be for you. Hope the winds of yonder land are just as pleasant and heartwarming. My doors will be flung open by these winds for a welcome to never forget. XXXVIII Dear Ekphrasis Like Musicians instruments combine for an orchestra our arts combined in raptured symphony. As the sounds of chirruping filled the room, we asked, “Are we forgetting something?” We replied, “I am leaving myself We had our sense of history of knowing also than any words we tell ourselves are words of any other. And entrances to truth there are XXXIX Maasoom complained of a constant ache; a pain in his heart. He finally died. The doctors said he died of an enlarged heart. The surgeon who tried to operate, said His heart was in the shape of the E G B L O XL O Abuja Nigeria Too gore hur stoning wouldn't mel-law rence a hardy shaw en twain A wilde or well singer leary Whit-less wolfe rejoyceing shellville Lope and trope fitz pale ale gerald No rude a dick insane Na book've kafked a stained back Vins chandelier faulks fins Hug lot erhes lings kip lot kip lot kip lot kip lot... XLI Martyr, many stolid martyrs Hoisted by jaded knights Beating together The loss—the death of Maktub XLII no poet is a speaker, a seer herself nor muse nor voice nor musing elf a poet, a true one, is a tree, a forest showering on soldiers all her flowers sprawl, buds, fruits, finally herself becoming, paper, becoming, a feeling. XLIII I see the milieus of Olympia spring odes to the fruit treeslost in your Bulgarian brown and the thoughts that gain them color escaping the ennui of poetic acquainting the genius of rainbow's assays of that which was beauty that short-lived revealed captured in bottle wraps the heart that suffers isnever to make contain the one that slowly spokelimbs and lips that tremble of desires that howled conflict the heart of the hand that wrote when moments of memory jarred the impulse that makes refrain the collected inaudible feast of sounds In the swinging of tranquil pines now meet the silent safe I hear the mullah pining of pages that walk the grave In the parables of Malgudi days pressing the voices that skip wis lava on the sands singing the shouts of scared schooling XLIII it's not the sleeping of the sounds of night nor the nodding of the world about them it's the falling asleep of swirling voices whence bellows of your name ÈÇáã Baa'lum ßaa?aµ unconsciously spring XLIV The striving feet of the seeker the sheikh's printed steps The path of truth to tread the bustle off my heart XLV In the deserts each image appeared as your shroud Each grain a chiseled promise, a glitter of your magical beauty A carousing caravan passes, thinks of me, a traveler lost, stops Ill with love for Khorazón, Majnoon of this age I'm called XLVI How would one light the lamp of one's heart that never flickered How would one recite the memories of one's heart that never fashioned XLVII The branch is alive with a new blossom The tireless can rest awhile... The tree of rights is lush anew Ab-e-hayat* rouses beat bosoms *Ab-e-hayat refers to the water of life in Persian. Contextual reference to a new birth, in this case to a family of human rights workers. XLVIII Dear Rupture I miss your pan dulcet delight your lissome guise your soft, petal cheeks your beautiful carbon eyes the dancing laughter in your rivers sweet knotting of your flawless navel the lushness of your soft mounds the simple touch, the kiss of consummation about your lobes, your temples, where I sinned and sinned and sinned for love knew not a limit to keep the sweetness pailed so love you tender I yearn in each to be one once with my plum my peach XLIX O my kinder ella, good night my fate do leave a sandal, a slipper, a trace dream of that prince, your smitten mate while he lies awake in your wake for lives beyond to behold your grace L Dear remains Will you let me deepen my love for living, walk with the current, take in the sights of birds? I am your shadow, a writer, a poet. I prize silence... and I need it. LI Dear flower your faint feistiness to survive gives me strength. tomorrow foreshadows a tenderness in my kernel that is yours' to keep. I do not know if the joy waltzing in my eyes that lights up our hearts lamps each time I visit is a light I see in you because my heart is but noir. I do not know if the joy and sweet in you is the same for each bee LII (Appearing in JMWW—A Quarterly of Writing, Summer 2005) Dear elixir december is not the cruelest month a feeling, falling, freely falling september, has dealt a joker, a poker-faced scream -ing sighs unsound in uncovered mouths shifting, slowly, approaching the genius of brown, tawny brown, bottled dancing song consuming, softly, destroying the dreyfusard* drop of life streaming, in kaboobs on tongs becoming as Johnny, unable to resist a few rocks, a little watering down to be consumed as a naked song in the heart of a sleeper of the deep dawn *dreyfusard refers to the kind of specific race based partiality destroying someone's life. The word originates from Alfred Dreyfus, a French army officer of Jewish descent whose false imprisonment for treason in 1894 raised issues of anti-semitism that dominated French politics until his release in 1906. LIII Dear oral Centered on aiding the ailing crown Detection of cause of reflex frown Fretting diagrams of shifty senses Rushing the care of all my bothers Entering the quivering, pulling caved Of creeping imagines, free rein I craved Ordeals of infancy brooking debris Mad cap I yelled, set me free LIV Dear map Where in the World First Second Third World LV How would God walk up to, away from him who doesn't think him as Him LVI
LVII What do I know of love lost--none, not What do I know of love depart--all, each Dark tunnels I seek walking through day--restive spirit Ensconce me in your warm darkness--dampen the light Bright that tears my very essence--shreds Veil me, hide me, quell me; Ah but leave me a plume and quill Describe I desire, my desires for you Describe you; your desires for I; but lastly, I try, I Droplets that know not why they fall glisten the sheets Flakes that know not why they fail cover the streets Attempts they do at beauty raw what raw is raw, cannot be made Or showed, sobered or ever stayed Thus futile it is and forever it stays LVIII Dear reader of last words In case you get this after my death, this is not the complete collection. There is much more there that needs to be, until my notes... LIX raison d'etre : mobility—of mind, body, or spirit, and direction—towards or against... LX Dear Artist not doing art One involves holding a position, the other passion. One involves joining a vocation, the other an ongoing vacation. One involves being called a professional, the other a child who loves what he does. One involves producing for respect at work, the other producing works of high respect. One involves seeking fame and recognition yet always finding it eluding them; the other shunning it for joy yet always finding it haunting them. One is the profession, the other game. LXI Dear Masoch* You are like my life blood, Some days I want to cut myself up and splatter you all around me, And fall in deep sleep immersed in you. You are but my restless spirit You reside in me yet I can't touch you You want to be free and yet you can't You'll only be unbridled when I die *Masoch refers to the Austrian novelist Leopold von Sacher-Masoch after who the medical term masochism is based. LXII My Dear Aging Swan Of physical beauty, none marr thou have My eyes will forever hold that mirage Thou may get a hundred wrinkles Thy image of you will never (trans) form LXIII a sufibhakt*'s fonts Ends are mysterious Of strings nuclease That twist and bond a sufibhakt's fonts in mass rapture with Bhagwan's theatre loving sculpture in spite of scripture *sufibhakt is a coinage referring to a Sufi Muslim and a Hindu Bhakt fused in a spiritual seeker singing self on the live Indian canvas. Bhagwan is Hindus word for Him and sculpture is their medium as text alone and denying idols is the Muslims medium. LXIV Dear Desiderata I see you like a person immersed in the love of another who sees her image in everything, who sees his subject and its relationships everywhere. I see as the Indians who immerse themselves in God and Ganesha, who see God in everything and are able to find relationships to and with God in everything. I see you in relationships in nature, in nature's work, in your surroundings, and all around with the matter and focus of all you... LXV Dear Despairing Departed You are like my life blood, some days I want to cut myself up and splatter you all around me, and fall in deep sleep immersed in you. you are but my restless spirit residing in me yet I can't touch you you want to be free and yet you can't wait to be unbridled will when I bow LXVI if you belong to heaven's sea o my soul's bread and cheese then await no longer onto me take me anon a near to thee LXVII Unorganized in shambles economy in crumbles only till yesterday It's coming big the wave The subcontinent getting larger people and power only till yesterday It's coming big wave Sleeping superpower plodding underdog power is shifting only till yesterday It's coming big the wave Quietly rising slow tortoise silly hare only till yesterday It's coming big the wave Agrarian decades industrial weeks metamorphic lava only till yesterday It's coming big the wave I'm shaking anxiously waiting I can see it kicking yesterday It's coming big wave LXVIII He who has sailed he who hath not is the former he that much more wise for adventures he has drunk in of the latter he, hath possessed with of surely a great imagination equally conversant perhaps many doth claim experience the queen thus reigning the former the clear victor O I argue visuals art tougher thus leaving the latter if reflection possessed a gauzy chance perhaps LXIX curly hair brown eyes could be anybody let's see who I am worked in a chimney then in a coal mine out walked a 'sooted' man hello billy, joe, or malcolm, they expect, they say, fearing the 'big fella' a wash basin ahead, the soot is off, the dust removed, the layer of black shocked them bystanders, color a changing, fears vanishin', expectations risin' walk up, smile a chilled, and say, “What are you doing here, you are one of us?” LXX Men working, driving, jerking; off, of your wife's beauty LXXI could you spare any change, could you? no, well have a good afternoon still pause, unpause, walk on, short pauses could I, yes, but should I my father's words prod “No khairaat* for anybody. Get a job! Earn your shorba and naan!” ringing, were they more true than truth, that which I see is his good greetin' worth nothin' surely it comes with a price at the eatery or a hefty one at the consoling couch-man must I give in, give it, give it in that which is not, surely not my lunch money not even my dessert, java, or tic tac toe maybe, yeah, maybe my pack of gum before tax muse as I haven't, are his words kind or kindly said, worth not the trifle, the trouble of giving, just for today, foregoing just for the day the measly, chewy, never fully done, finally refused lump of wretched wrigley's my father's words returnin', remindin', oh I, I still, somehow still, manage, to him lie, and walk on by... *khairaat in persian refers to that which is un-earned, free, spare, given of good will by giver LXXII though much has been said and little is left yet venture I still, some once again for wisdom, novelty, truth bereft breathe some life I attempt again never ever give up my dear for fear is merely a testament of life, a mere sentiment cower not and face with tears hath become fakir when once an emir then know it, face it, and talk to it swallow the wallow, and stomp through it LXXIII An antagonistic congress cannot ever make a country progress LXXIV I dreamt with open eyes of and with you as yesteryears played on the auto stereo the world had claimed we were infatuated had we not listened, wouldn't be so insatiated let locks of gazes belong to yore and loving flow, for the one before LXXV as I slept alone, a fool, and she kept a begging I felt her eternal side beside me never to leave me, disown me and I kept a tarrying dreaming of farthings working all while imagining that smile yet how long can beauty lie if the beholder cannot see the beholden if the beholden is but miles and miles away should the beauty be blamed if it sways, with time LXXVI The kisses that were once mine now belong to another The hugs that only knew my arms now know the others' The gazes that were once struck between you and I Now only belong to you and your newest my, not I There's nothing left to behold for what was, is beheld by another beholder A desire to be held no more triggers me and mine For merely holding is not beholding And no fool am I to still believe in I as the beholden when you hold me LXXVII On why I remain tense some days it's you some days it's memories of you some days it's the thought of you warming your husband's bed some days it's knowing that I love you more now than when we…were we some days it's keeping to myself the love for you so you may love him sans grains or rue some day's it's waiting with love to meet and greet and sit with you, yet keeping you true some days it's ruining any fling or flutter so the heart stays true to you some day's it's knowing and doing all this for you yet feeling lonely too… and some days it just isn't you some days it's just knowing you, and me, and not knowing why it isn't you and me… LXXVIII On a very long angst-filled amnesiac accident I have lost somewhere, someplace my friend my nation And has fallen asleep there my strength my summation There were no hints in the garden, no moon in the pond No pull in my mother's soil, no life in her mighty bedrocks The seed that was once lain uprooting today I try in vain The sheet that was once torn sowing it today I try in vain O how I thought love grows tender in the hearts' adieus O how I thought banter lives forever in shades of chateaus LXXIX In the palaces of God, poets or children never still Lest they take the place of a sinner confessing his will LXXX On Another Very Long Moment Only speak I this live My heart's watery as fish To whom must I what where Let streams flow from sockets that see Break away what mighty walls of stone The home to be is not yet pictorialized Only speak I this live My heart's watery as fish To each each what what When even our mothers snicker snort snort Cast away rituals, fault lines Then whose hands will break my bread Only speak I this live My heart's watery as fish LXXXI On his day before last grandpa, his broken chair holding his broken-hearted self, headphones circling his surround with no source, teeth taking the shifting point ears trying the wealth of his shattering would give him that which reduced him slowly daily moving and shifting, canines, molars, finally the wise unplucked; grand-mum quietly suffered…then offered her only set anything that would ring ring ring…wring him out LXXXII Washing Radha's flowery péds and wiping her jeweled eyes… feet, feet that wheel the world each day swelling with finds of pebbles and fears soaking in dirt and caking in tears, of others, others who daily come and sing strains of melancholies of yesteryears of life and mind and money lost of heart and house and sanity cost, those feet that walk to them and hold, hold their feeble fibrils tight as nostrils flow till tear ducts dry, as trauma drains till terror dies, as stuttering shatters till shudder subsides… those feet, those smiling, loving peds, those feet, those lovely smiling peds, those feet my dear are flowers for me and flowers from which to dust careen with wafts of amour I wait each night eyes, eyes that soothe the world each day burning in sights of cinder and sears hoarding in ashes and hiding the tears, of others, others who daily come and sing strains of melancholies of yesteryears of life and mind and money lost of heart and house and sanity cost, those eyes that see through them and flesh, flesh their sagging spirits high, as nostrils flow till tear ducts dry, as trauma drains till terror dies, as stuttering shatters till shudder subsides… those eyes, those soaked, seeing eyes, those eyes, those seeing, soaking eyes, those eyes my dear are oysters for me and oysters from which to pearls wean with torrents of verve I wait each night LXXXIII When evening surprises, Nothing salves, as a kiss of kins O to be kissed by kins, softly As the chasm light kisses Paper Mache O to feel no need for ever For a kiss from one's kins Oh to be damned to dusk By the kisses of one's kins LXXXIV In a crafter's school the many treasures museum, with their maker, their jungle lover, eternal curator Finger memories of the seer's truths are his tools… and a hookah is all he needs LXXXV (Appearing in Journal, Confused in a Deeper Way, May 2005) A lost palm in a sea …of clouding sands singing blues of the past I must have lived …through eyes as yet alit LXXXVI when an artist is jailed …bosoms cage beasts LXXXVII the bridge is my beyond …for I never love; I have always loved LXXXVIII dearest bosom blossom move block consolidate I bid help LXXXIX Your innumerable windows softly chiming my childhood onto these long forgotten streets in fits of squealing, on visit maiden adding kernels to memories hoped to in all these years be waiting their key from their lost transient… to walk through one's township of times past, unrecognized is a luxury worth tonsulling for if I was to feel the hurting heat of tropicalia walking my summer streets… they drenched me, invading with their warmth XC Oh how I wish to stand across from you with resolved heart and wish you the wishes of our happiest day to let you break into my life without mires to mirror your light bright against my eyes to love be loved without loving my queries of you to be simple with you I have measured my relationships in Bollywood rentals I have always looked at the sky and fallen in a ditch XCI A poet's heart's a dish, her life its cart Peckers the party, poking each (a) part XCII my muse knows naught of my moods, arriving with a glint abandon this, renounce that and that, time for another stint XCIII On Masks and Melting Milieus as eyes look around in boxcar A, faces—black, white, sandy, peach—these that are bébé, those that are not men, women fat, fit or fine—countenances weighing visages seen in heart's mirror; unaware, transposed visions of faces in different settings—set upon you as you look in them Africa, India, China, Queens grounds, thatches, mahals, markets—each one a queen, a king, a prince, a dame, working for the Apple as worker-bees to return to rule in pastures some day, places from where they were to be, would be… XCIV they are gone, those bright autumn day-falls joyful midnights and easy-starting wheels casually dressing and dreaming of going to stars or Mars or somewhere afar… these days my dear these days it's different today our lovely Apple was carved with it's first flakes of winter-fall groves a-gone cemeteries asleep and as cars sputtered and the sun hid among its brethren and murky skies veiled dancing bears, it occurred to me I can still dream of going
XCV the dying gaul* with many unanswers that sudden twitch transfixed slaughter the fenced breasts shielding nobility shortened man embracing mean shadowed shoulder askew silhouette fresh slice of life returned to slab when alive isn't plinth, plinths become emasculators of life itself nude signifiers of eras consumed consummates for eras to be single sort countless bloods fresh slice of life returned to slab all that arm and hand scaffold exposé of glorious splash tarnished life in metal hearts a spark of tribute alight it now and rouse eëëas to expire some more fresh slices of life, reduced to slab * the dying gaul is an ekhphrastic reference to a picture of “The Dying Gaul”, also known as the Dying Gladiator, Capitoline Museum, Rome XCVI On the Mythistoria of Venice Mythistoria is the feat yarn of the word Shylock and Shakespeare intended it so as links, kinks indeed; kins to be exact wrangling for dominion, survival gone amuck believing Aristotle had it wrong with use of reed as if to sing the human being is to grasp him dreaming Venice with mosques, in between Portia knowing as Oedipus, as every Átalian, as every Alemani, as each Espaniola… touché touché if forked tongue gives for taking a thing isn't taking the thing gentle or gentile isn't human each, yet bloodletting comes only of Christian leech contracting the illness from idle beans lordships separating on the mercantile pucker purse the spoils of golden lips narrowing the wreck of Catholic peace mort gage content for current ends short story of the soothers as Babel did mark in-group rituals and native spaces essence in translation of politico –ocracies brahmins filing as peripatetics talking walking walking talking stalking shocking Myt historia Myth istoria my historia my three storia becoming iron twisters of considerable repute as worms that crawl in heavy traces as tradesmen ducat and unnoble Darwins civilize allegory coping with reality XCVII Where must restive souls reside when hunger drives and nights of thousand-dollar dinners abound around to help subside the pains of fellows in worlds outside where wants for water and needs for coal collide and gathered stars speak heart to heart of sweepings scars off faces afar all this while all this while restive souls in city's ports and car and train and shuttle stops are wondering unsure some day some way same stars will find their local starve bewitching enough and have that ball, that rousing blast and take some part in their daily starts in scrounging together a thousand dinners for a dollar each and every night XCVIII this is a story of a time when easily we could have among the stench become stench ourselves; our roots, our feet, stymied sullied, so easily we could have among the soot become soot ourselves; our core a-gone, heavily infested so easily we could have among the locusts become locusts ourselves; our dreary feet silting, sinking so easily we could have among the swamp become swamp ourselves; our squeezed hearts gristed, roasted so easily we could have among the nuts become nuts ourselves… yet oil we became clear and expressive so easily we could have among the waters become watered ourselves; yet fire we became light and rising so easily we could have among the quicksand become quicksand ourselves; yet engines we became whistling locomotion so easily we could have among the fuel become fuel ourselves yet lotuses we became bursting bosoms so easily we could have among the forgotten become forgotten ourselves… XCIX Wailing Imprints… sights, sights I wish I did not see leaving my eyes in living stills begging for darkness and yearning for sleep those eyes these eyes don't let me be words, words I wish I did not speak paling an unpipped, orange cheek leaning on walls and walking on trees those slips uttered don't let me be C On the Model Minority trying to sleep O to utter our utter immigrant nights who would believe our privileged shrieks? while pickle to pulp our lives become and all that all are wont to know blissful strides and moneyed bides blue veins dry of pulse affirms and flow that firms is sappy flow 'lone we lie in lovely abodes suckled, sucked, storied, sold and one to one have each one told strains that stream in struck strings and friends that buzz and beat around ill of life yet full of life chell, cell, surf, surge and tides will come and winds will blow yet ours' to time the come and go while all that lasts we'll never know suppered, stuffed, stifled, sowed suckled, sucked, storied, sold CI Abstinence is the greatest form of adultery CII On the Harvard Dead Discussing the Idea of Europe the perverse pleasure pike Elytis, the precariously contemplating Cavafy, the audible in an audience Auden and the humbler of rhetoric Seferis, the plain speaking Szymborska and I, yes I, toasted and hosted at Eëëas a day not long before we spoke comparatively of the uses of ancientia, then sparred on differences in –isms, of Balkans and of the Orient—prisms, of seeing and not seeing—othering, of dubbing one chap another soft puss, of incomplete shadows, romantics, negative problematics then broke a bit for syrah and feta, aping the me and them again, back as soon for some and same, parleying legacies and discursive, protectorates becoming pressure cookers, translations un commissioned, of Napoleon, Islam and not Mohemmadanism, of Hindustan and Near East and Far East, of Shiva and Pentheus the horrible, Agave, and bacchantes, Suleyman the Magnificent, Venetia, and titanic tiaras next stopping thinking of Classics O the Greek ones are they any other Achilles not Arjun as Arjun losing Maha-bosom, then rousing, switching now Rama now Hanu, Hanuman that is, shrilling causing Ilou Persis as Lanka had been, tearing, O, but we had to be into Classics Greek Homer, rather Orpheus the great singer of the lair, shrilling—a city of peace, a city at war of what of origins, Demos, histor, skeptron, Ecphrastic tropes, of price of life in civil strifes, of tekhne of shield, musiqui rhapsodies at Athena, mimos masking, wearing this is that all occurring en-theos with enthusiasmo en trance, a paean shrilling—Hutos Akinos, Hutos Akinos, Hutos Akinos slowing, years have we, evening, tiring, speaking, talking, Confucian way, verbalizing, posing short asks, offering thought drops, poetics of space—hermeneutic, sacred, model—temenos, space that is circular and triple square, triple altar mapped in circe, no mysterium rather telesterion, simply Vedic, Rig, Vedic writing rites breaking and breathing, whole gulp-fuls, nonsense makes one breathless, breaking, slowing onto a sympotic couch, lovers with potions and potents, communing on Kline pondering soon thereafter if Plato really knew Homer, imagining Socrates without his daemon, easing, getting elevated, stumping, slamming, swinging on all twigs, and for a moment understanding completely eureking, Kainomuthos Esothe! Kainomuthos Esothe! Death to me not to the Dialectic, wakes us all this myth-mongering bawdy bard-sir, so went the myth Oedipus as patient, riddler and solver, determined and determined, decoder and maker, faulty as philopsychosis, guilty as anal-genesis, associating home truths as the making and decoding of tragedies No single region is my specialty neither my friends' we weave and sow and steep and smart, start and cleave, and we stop, we do stop, and so we did, all gathered at Ambrosia's in Olympia, for Ouzo and Mezzeh, looking far away for sovereign sway, or raising up some, of bearing others, of Muslim brotherhood, of bleeding thicker and love does wicker, of interest in sheep and pens or armor for defense, of money and friend becoming contracts and transacts, from a single being to one spiritual geograph Shakespearean of purse and person then reaching today's burly scones, decisions of who is blue blood who confused, who be married who be tarried, who become ewe who alien spew, who Jessica with no music, who Portia for recreation and procreation, who would be Christ forgetting to buy insurance for the greater good of man, Auto Man Bassanio reminding, Adam started his woes by biting that self-same fruit, what the Shibboleth, who is Shylock, who got hoary tongue, who lone desire, not for peace for conflict is all but caused by searching for it, but for one who's knowledge as cased is not yet known to drivel sans wisdom all this while, all this, while we can't decide how Moses moseyed and walkie-talkied, and we still must decide without decrying at times the boundaries and literature of yew origins, creating myth hysteria and easing ourselves, thinking this time, at least this time we ease our designations, sweet privations for novel savage nominations so exhausting, speaking, we reached the evening's end, Seferis and Cavafy left for the grave, Rimbaud had already begged early leave, a high feast wasted Auden and Eliot, drained Elytis bid a quick farewell, and on to his Odyssey, leaving Szymb and I, just Szymb and I, to prepare her hymen… CIII As I stretch my third eyebrow the strength within is pulling thin the long projections leaving me with less than before but more relieved I wonder if I will make it through to do this again next morning too… CIV four full new years have gone by the bed of celebrations is not faint eating morsels of self as daily memories new world keeping busy old world un-letting go mounds of unfinished, mid-sculpted mantle clay —stirred, desiring session to shape the finish, finish the shapes inactive substrate fitting catalyst awaiting CV To heal the self love your work and work your love CVI no tears no heartbreaks no one-offs tonight I shall have curry I will have curry tonight CVII petal to petal is not as close on a live ripe, embosomed rose as I and another and eyes and others tonight ooze to ooze is not as close in an outpoured aged whisky toast as I and another and eyes and others tonight blouse to bosom is not as close on an eternal Hindu idol pose as I and another and eyes and others tonight newfound pom-grapes, ripened cante-melons, bursting tom-fruit, as I and my other, our eyes and others tonight CVIII miles years gone one poof love attachment un-gone, un-poof people days times distract people days times fade one poof your scent your dangle un-gone, un-poof your meet sits here, a fig descends, a pigeon drops a distant missive, all back in one single poof CIX cold winds blew, tents gave away the sheltered selves, lay barren, cold a huge sign, snack bar, a cup of joe another acquired it to be a women's lo tarps flying away, shirts clinging to bods contours flaunts blushes giving no damn frosty, chilly sparsely surrounded, couldn't care more or less, our ties selling as soft cakes not hot ones delicious ones bought once a lunar breathing, taking out the green, carrying his visage so we sit a while, calm, collected; others freeze, entertain, complain, even copulate; not us unh aa Pap & I cool sold two go home proud to mom CX mommy mommy where are you even in my dreams I cry for you I look out the window and read signs affirming lOvE bollywood blaring all...in my dreams hug me mommy hug me come hug me mommy at least in my dreams... CXI as ashes to turn this child does unaware barbed obstructed throbber; wheat and coal strand and fall, boozer stops sips hops gulps vintage; knights are gambled pawns bailed; unaware you me the child this child our wants; smoke, ashes, cinders reduction to; no hindrance celestial, earthly, pristine ashes ashes unaware ashes unaware growing as children grow becoming now always and never more divine... CXII dear Mahmoud Darwish the gawping bird elevated on a west side shore transmitting to me a song the song of Philistine lifting, gifting me a stainless glob of free freedom commanding scribe scribble score scale slide sort write and s t a r t l e t h e t i m e s, the times of dark, of Abu becoming past, come stop this thing, come sing a strive undone in my songs my fight for my own canto... CXIII a subterranean craving for a child, a Palestinian Indian Hindu child, and for him a life away from the railroad CXIV blood, blood oozing fearfully, fear each day I try each day I try to voice or word all that occurred that fateful night my hands are taut my neck is tight my eyes are blank and the heart, the heart is full of fright God, God please take away these horrific sights I have no might but I still want to fight some day dear lord some day some day dear Lord I want to perform the simple act of flying a kite and feel once again s o f t l i g h t a n d CXV not known are strings unaware my fellow heart springs, spring with joy mention your name, springs, bellows had not known another joy that moment has not the need for you or I that moment had I eaten dulcet or dote had I drank nectar or drain would I have felt the difference, the pain alas in vain, ah, that but that moment, that sweet thought that thought-moment exists in neither space nor time your name, name that is forever mine even if you do not you may change, betrothals and such, but thou will not, not in name, not till thee CXVI On the wishes of the black and white the death of the brown eccentric the misled, the lost, the frenzied the drug-lord, sadist, the baddie death, death of the brown eccentric the wishes of the black and white the death of the brown eccentric desires, desires to be unreasonable to be or become a man with beard death, death to the brown eccentric the wishes of the black and white the death of the brown eccentric wanting to be sad crazy and true howling his life and love depart speaking to self and writing inverse death, death to the brown eccentric the wishes of the black and white the death of the brown eccentric wanting to mourn dead lover's love on napkins, tissues, towels agog crying on planes and grieving in loo's suspicious, suspicious behavior this neither black nor white nor civil this death, death to the brown eccentric the wishes of the black and white the death of the brown eccentric neither black nor white nor American thus death, death to this brown eccentric CXVII Dear Sweet Deceit peaches and litchis come long-ward my way each day rolling in a sensual crepe oh they do mangoes and cantaloupes beckon me to taste and stay each adorning a fresh cape oh they do honeydews and melons do the drip sip sashay each day basil chutney mayo shape oh they do but sweet cherry un-blueberry fray-less slip-less sherry drape to you only you to this day I do CXVIII a love doomed to never ease a marriage doomed to never please so decided the two non and non...neither living nor ceasing, just on and on... CXIX I a m a
e m CXX To Raunchyball the time twelve thirty am the place the jungle six youth—three boys three babes their only possession—a basketball go figure a hoop in the middle of nowhere who in what state of mind put it there well so it started three on three bodies guarding bodies heavy breathing the panting the gasping the shooting basket after basket shot after shot slamming in again, and again, changing positions, jamming it in endlessly clock strikes two sweating and groaning game gets rougher figures rubbing, pushing, shoving, groping...for the basket two thirty hormones raging no stopping now playing horse hotter than burning coal, three am can't wait any longer can't do this anymore all ready for it race home, shower and fall asleep like babies uh-hah, uh ha ha, ah ha ha ha... CXXI a happy face across her cheeks and light blue hues adorning her as she, touching things and gathering darkness on coattails, to her dream lover said, thank you very much mr. one-eyed surgeon general mr. three-eyed purple colonel you were good but there is better and I will never see you again CXXII as you watch sitting on stone steps in 2003 a play of The Ghost of Polydorus, you look up and take solace and joy in knowing that while we only see for three hours, these stars above have been witnessing since perhaps the beginning of Epidavros and ever before. Maybe the light still shines through the stars gone but still here CXXIII every judgment is not an observation but every observation is a judgment CXXIV a new york city subway door, we run towards the about to close train doors, doors, I am already in, you are ten feet behind, you stick your foot, I stick mine in, the door, the door tightens around our feet, threatens to take us like us on a train wanting to roar, then suddenly opens, you hop in, I hop out...and wonder if breakups could happen like so, if they did, what, wow, and how. CXXV cultures of food cultures from food cultures cultured from hours spent preparing spent eating cultures where the meals are shared—Ethiopian, Indian, Afghani—cultures where the dishes have to be shared or you cannot eat...amour couture CXXVI clay objects in the hands of the lovelorn with distinct non-love love messages such as “Don't love” CXXVII the beauty and grace of a tyre hand-made with ridges from, due the hand of the rubber tyre-maker, him, her imagining the safety provided 'tis subjects and the splendor of 'tis ephemeral art objects CXXVIII am I dressing up when I wash up for the white man. when I see a white man do I see white before man. if so I have not evolved CXXIX SANITIZATION AS CIVILIZATION: The Great Fallacy! CXXX fasting in America as Bhook Hartal as protest CXXXI positive stereotyping—the key to any being's awakening in the short run CXXXII not words not actions nothing is everything CXXXIII racism as grounds for divorce, as grounds for awakening in a cross-race marriage of one to her identity and demanding separation for typing of her race and of her as the exception... CXXXIV poems as repositories of ideas—ideas of science, humanity, of art ,tekhne, ideas of craft and technique, of technology CXXXV I detect depression by the acts of crumbling coffee-cake in the hands of a December soul. CXXXVI Is the sun getting brighter or my eyes lifting more CXXXVII my, well, she was a treasure trove of skimmed pleasures CXXXVIII I am locked in the toxicity of the pleasure pain possible CXXXIX developed and civilized are sometimes antonyms CXL I have made a habit of losing lovers and loving losers CXLI saving the world is much easier than sharing it CXLII you be good and I be good and we be better when we see each other CXLIII O to be able to put so much sweetness in me so he conducts his operas through me, each vein becomes his flute his reed, he permeates, permits me to use he for Him. CXLIV o to build a million brick bridge not a million men march memorial a rebuttal to the Israeli wall against Palestine a brick for each Partition(s) parted... CXLV poetry in public space and poet as public intellectual CXLVI love has an enormous capacity to paralyze and lost love even more so CXLVII brilliance and depression are related but it is not a mystery; for brilliance is nothing but an over firing or peaking of neurons and depression in some ways a lack of firing, a balancing need to level the firing. Brilliance necessitates depression in neuronal terms. CXLVIII i work as a team CXLIX thank you but not much said the man to the woman who picked up to return his divorcee's wedding ring... CL most couples just live together CLI less pay for more say has more sway than false way CLII Maasoom's daughters in order, to their father, why their grades suffer: my dignity is far more valuable than letters of the alphabet...all letters of the alphabet are equally beautiful CLIII In order to meet the right person I must be the right person. CLIV bush doctrine as confusion theory: a theory the practice of which is intended for a result of deliberate confusion... CLV the continuous delivery of joyful sounds and monologist acts and simulated mimicks and fringeless pouring, this rich oral rumbling must find greater mediums of mass reach—I guess what I am really trying to say CLVI discussing the intricacies of eating a hard taco without breaking it while breaking over perplexing liberation wars CLVII 96th street station 1 am: alighted from 2 express, awaiting the 1 or 9. a black senior citizen, destitute, homeless with pants a drooping and back a bent having somehow procured a McDonald's hamburger, the 69 cents one, or perhaps the one with cheese at a dime more. a white 40's mustached vagrant, same state, comes to him, beseeches, looks and wanders and I see a second later in his hand a sandwich too. At first I don't see a sandwich in the older black man's possession and feel the joy of the largesse of the poor black man sharing his sandwich. But I was wrong only factually so for the black man still had his sandwich. there was a McDonald's bag beside his foot, and as he was going to walk further and in my mind I was going to judge him as a poor, old, kind man and turn around when I see him bend down and pick it up and walk it to the trash can. And I think now as I look, of the civil duty and civic sense that I felt he had, thinking of it lacking not just in beggars in India. and the 1 and I quickly jostle as the doors close quickly and now I thought how he was a story. and a minute later I heard his voice, a voice I had heard once before and rewarded, on the train, with pennies and dimes. he was now alone and he asked for food and money saying it was so late and probably the shelters were closed and so he wanted to find what he could to. and I thought him a fraud for having just eaten and asking, and then he was passing by and there wasn't enough room and ever so politely he said excuse me and I was blind to shifting anymore. CLVIII giving the gift not anonymously but to somebody from somebody who has always wanted to gift something to their buddy but couldn't and you resolve the problem of the buddy thanking by requesting in the letter with gift to the buddy to accept the lovely gifts of eternal love but never to mention gratitude or receipt to the somebody gifting, and steal their joy CLIX wine is a better metaphor for a poet's life and poetry inducing state than stronger spirits since the spirit of poetry rises, lifts, gushes, and then becomes the one dancing; the stronger spirit will come, flash, burn, and produce those sparks that are exhuming for the quieter, sadder self while wine is as it has been, the slow alighter... CLX an ode to whose debt I can never repay: sweet largely unseen friends—my librarians. CLXI if you cannot understand tradition you cannot do innovation CLXII to the question whether poetry can be taught or not: there is an art to poetry and there is a craft to poetry...the craft can be taught and the art refined. one can respond to an innate art by learning the craft but certainly the craft must be taught either by self to self or from one or many refined thus so. CLXIII acceptance always takes longer than understanding...for there are other truths CLXIV my doors and closets are sweet instrums producing sweet hum drums CLXV let's start on a fresh note, said M. said I, I am plugging so let's leave it on a stale note CLXVI raking the leaves of my erstwhile... CLXVII To hell with nobody! Did you find her extraordinarily attractive? Only with her clothes on.... CLXVIII the mirror-work was stained with the rancor of strains reflecting the pain of forced restrains CLXIX nothing is everything CLXX all that you see in her is all that you are CLXXI she made me marry her; it was the best decision I ever took. CLXXII some men are destined for greatness; others for happiness CLXXIII Damiyun, whad r u dueen agreen wid hur...? CLXXIV when something is lost is it better to think or to act? CLXXV a poet's official hours: normal business hours are 8 am to 8 am Monday through Monday CLXXVI true, some things are easier said than done; but others, faster done than said CLXXVII i am filled with wisdom yet I cannot claim so for claiming it would be unwise CLXXVIII the sounds of love remembered are incoherent but pleasant the sounds of love remembered are incoherent but pleasant the sounds of love remembered are incoherent but pleasant CLXXIX wisdom is priceless but books of wisdom come at a price... CLXXX mentors are craved early and ever yet are not essential to your growth. Be your own mentor: let your art, your craft, be your mentor. CLXXXI the greatest trick man ever pulled on man was to make him believe there exists a normal: ever since man has been either proud or unnerved of being deviant. CLXXXII I am my always you are my always you are your always I am your always in messages to my all ways CLXXXIII she had reached the moment of truth: she was watering the cat and feeding the plant… CLXXXIV the only way you can be in the present moment is to be inside a traveler moving at the speed of light CLXXXV I could have but that was not the order in which ideas came… CLXXXVI to be spiritual is to search worship CLXXXVII is this the way to the second feed of the day CLXXXVIII giving gifts creates distance: giving that which one gravitates to has force…and all that is natural gravitates. CLXXXIX I want to talk when I have something to speak Or you that I must hear I want to smile when there is reason to smile Or joy bursting I want to laugh when laughter is forthright Or feel when I do I want to lose myself from America because America itself is lost CXC Imagine the enlargement CXCI some see things as they are: others as they are CXCII if you do the due do you will get the good get CXCIII a cloud of fog surrounds, shrouds my body and soul I wonder if I'll lose myself to each subsumed roar I run a million yards and lose you some I run some more, lose you a bit more the cocoon of nothingness carries me yonder to a place quite empty as your wake before or so I thought until I was with none around no yonder to run, no soul to hold only a throbbing crow with heart atorn only to turn to wake to know then take that arrow and stab me sure alas, if only all I fathom were not for store CXCIV that which I thought and knew as love I held only with my first love of life that which I now understand as love I hold fast with my one and only wife CXCV there is a delicacy in me that demands expression…an expression free from the reader's eyes, free from the editor's reply, free from the definition of my, mine, and life itself. An expression that takes the form it likes. An expression unafraid, true, untrue, afraid, itself, un-itself, joy-filled, joyless and the ilk..an expression free from the burdens of explication. CXCVI I lost someone today not someone I knew but someone nevertheless. In Kyafas, Greece. The sea is glorious the sea can be very cruel. The sea took away somebody. The sea will never be the same. I will learn to save lives. He who I lost today turned into the sky before his soul left for its home. And the dead are the dead living. And the sister whose respite from marriage woes were you and laments pouring out her heart to you for the grief was much too much for you and so you dived. And she is quiet and he is and I do not want to drink but want to find more truth and find spirit without needing them to attain it so…and I am alive to tell you without knowing so CXCVII Material (nice) as security for the immigrant in airports around the world CXCVIII I will love you all my life for you have loved me in all my deaths CXCIX I don't want to read about him; I want to read him CC To marry you and make you mine I promised not To love you and love you as mine I promise kept CCI she was without movement…she had moments CCII Teaching poetry is like teaching religion; it must be done yet how do you do it…only guidebooks remain CCIII Transferring of sensibilities across one's languages breathes fresh life into one's poetry. Yet how does one translate context CCIV love is a match CCV loneful is full of lone as against loveful and lifeful and not moanful and not baneful and not lossful… CCVI If you are going to immortalize me through your poetry, your songs, your sketches (and be clear that I will not die for you) then for whom I am my dying and dying now. For you to make me the subject of your art. For you to grive into your art. For you to observe yourself grieving, for your art. For you, alas, for you, it is for you that I am dying… CCVII your nipples are the best part of my breast… CCVIII I hope I have hope… CCIX Understanding matter as energy helps one understand movement of objects as manipulation of force energies… CCX I am losing vocabulary as I question each word and its connotation CCXI America is an unlivable paradise CCX dear buddha remember the most important conversation one has is with oneself. Do not ever devalue that conversation. CCXI Dearest Kinoushka I think it is over. I really treasure you, I love you in some ways but I must have the courage to say this. I really believe we cannot do this. We were in each others lives for a reason. But we have to leave each other now as we have reached past those moments of instability. It is time to be true. You are too beautiful a person to have to hear what you do. And I am too simple a person to be put on a pedestal like you do. I absolutely love and treasure you but I cannot marry you. I am neither capable of loving you the way one should unconditionally love one's wife nor recovering at any rate or changing to become a patient or relaxed presence. I am not sorry but rather glad for you. I do not want to burden you with a life of constant dithering as well as pruning. I wish to give you the wings to fly or the seats to reign but not the cages to contain. I wish not to be the one to make you cry or laugh as your only emotions. I wish for you to become your own self with one on your thought and heart level. I know you love me dearly and tenderly but I must not inflict this upon one so gentle, innocent and flippant as you to deal with one as aggressive, impatient and academic as I. I tender you my resignation in love and wish you accept it with gentle sorrow. I came to you in earnest and realized that you are really someone who deserves what befalls my eyes in vain on days of rue I hope you are clear and strong and chant His name that gives you the tenderness and joy that makes you special in times of shaking disquiet. Love ... CCXII knowing oneself and making oneself clash. the more you know of yourself the less you make (new) of yourself. the less you know of yourself the more you have to make of yourself. CCXIII I work with the precision of a scientist and the vision of an artist... CCXIV the hiding of my script (Nastaliq—Farsi) every time there's a terror attack. the politicization of the meaningless written. my script as an instrument, a weapon, to be hidden lest it terrify fellow fliers... CCXV nothing that will happen will happen again CCXVI I came to Delhi and sat in the flower bed of the songs of Gurudev. Upon my arrival in their surround, I was asked, “What did you do in Delhi?” “I sat with my Gurudev.” And they said, “Do not trust him literally. He is a poet.” And I sat, waiting to be reunited with Him. CCXVII a poet is a sphere a presence without a point of view... CCXVIII brushing past old men on way to poetry class pushing the priests running late to Sunday Mass thrusting through tourists to a stretch of true nirvana cursing city cabbies to a session on healing trauma CCXIX ultimately all that is valuable is valuable only, and only, in the mind... CCXX a just war CCXXI the black says “they was...” because they (sometimes white people) is singular for which he substitutes the plural for the singular representing... CCXXII dear kinoushka when you will sleep and I will wake, I'll miss you CCXXIII a good life is a life not full of goods but of life CCXXIV I am glad I wasn't poor for I would be a narcissus like you self-made sir... CCXXV O God, let not my nasals clog no not this eve just not this eve these hailed eyes need to soak all that ails these young nerves let it be let it be ah, but this eve depart them from me this dawn my life's dusk perhaps breathe life into me please breathe into me let these eyes effuse reach water this eve this eve these eyes those eyes drop to drop drop by drop drop to drop let not my nasals clog the “I's” for tonight, the night of sweet departure let them sprinkle, spring, slow, slide, slush, trouble, trough, trickle, a wee let these male eyes, O God, mail all that they mean, convey the carousing caravan of cries, in surge to thee tonight... CCXXVI hold not my reigns of expression tonight let truth be spread across the table let not mere mortality ever sear the bloody fountain that I know is love CCXXVII the times we spend are the banks of my future withdrawals... CCXXVIII dear dearest to say I love you would be insulting what we have. It is simply I and you. CCXXIX I decline to draw my energy from God; somebody needier needs to tap in so I make way CCXXX I am always reaching for the stars. But in doing so I forget the ground beneath my hooves. Unearthed groundless I soar in amphibious spheres to unknown shores. CCXXXI epiphany: a young Muslim woman dashing through campus wearing a full hijab (head covering) skirting on roller blades! CCXXXII put life into your life my life or else o life of my life my life leaves my life CCXXXIII and he died. and they did a post-mortem. and they mused the cause, the causes. and hummed and hawed and finally said, “this man had no heart; not for the last fifty years.” he was seventy-three. CCXXXIV only he knows silence that who lives with the rumbles of journeys... CCXXXV To strive and become or to stay and be CCXXXVI There is no self to discover only one needs recover the distracted hour with the divine lover CCXXXVII only he can teach that who is still seeking CCXXXVIII It is only you with who I have shared the silence of struggles... CCXXXIX dearest cossack gorovichka You are rich and deep like the great master Langston's rivers, your channels will always flow and flow with surrender, your destinations will always open the harshest of haughty hinders, your heart will make the land your feet touch a place of wonder. As you breathed correctly O Shams O Balkhi O Dehlavi O Rooh-e-Ikhtiyaari, jahaan insaan seh hai insaan jahaan seh nahi —the world is from you you are not from the world... So it is that the beauty of Konya becomes purer and truer to us through the veins of your hands retiring and engaging in journeys your own in letters and prints With love that flows from petal to prose and heart that once in your immense arose from slumber in which truth was buried to blossom as one svelte perfect rose CCXL dearest fumie this thirst to be that river of ever flowing attar* How can I ever thank thee there are no ways that speak of journeys you have so made to absolve this heart of me *(nectar of roses) CCXLI dearest fumie sun every sentence was a poem, is, will be love manabu CCXLII dearest goru count me circling on the Golden Ring. i shall be so honored lest i be the center in the consent venn of your loving mirror's. In jest I speak yet only half, for if it is so, let it be known for I shall be forever your's enchanted well in here or fore. I spoke a while to Fumie whose words we know are sprightly gay and yet I couldn't but help reveal the trepidation for her life I feel revolution it is as beckons Sasha so I wished Serhiy and Masha the sorting of their mother's woes and leadership if that on poisoned toes. such is my feeling my darling mate for truth arrives in lonely states what one must in deep darkness fear in light of day must wake and bear with heart a full of memories spate knowing not what keeps this store of fate those lanes I visit the man I crave is none if not the inside's wait CCXLIII all that is natural...is imperfect CCXLIV it is when you are trying to teach you are not ready to receive it is when you are trying to give you are not there to aggrieve it is when you are trying to preach you are not present to perceive CCXLV to dream of opening my eyes to your loving gaze with natural yearn as the blossom buds wait to be touched by rays of the pre-dawn sun CCXLVI O Dear the Light of Smiles a couplet in your service, to your beatific smile O affaire de coeur, your sparkling smile besets me so in a single glance of amor in o what knot you weave me so Joon, I want to admit to you that you have lit up my life. I find you incredible and like you so. Joon, I cannot tell you how the logistics would work or if your feelings are there and will sustain but I have no fear in telling you I like you with all my heart. However, I treasure you as a beautiful sunflower, and will not want any wrinkles or tresses to appear on your lovely self so I will let you be completely as you are. I know where I am and where we are so I will not take your name ever lest it ever be taken in vain. I want you to know I will be the same friendly, professional presence in the office. With this I close to you my dear to one who is both far and near in hopes to love unceasingly new one who never in my eyes will wear CCXLVII Gauri Jooni for seeing her I lost myself but knowing her I unfortunately found a man groping for truths and eternity in ephemeral vanishes. i must grow gauri for the sadness, rage, and then relief of finding the reciprocity lacking were truly disturbing for me. i must grow to love and love but not seek. i must love but not seek. i must love and love and not call it so only if it is returned...i have to grow and grow a world more inside me. only true love, as you so beautifully said, gives a glimpse into the depth and meaning of the world within us. and true love seeks truth and love not gratification or requite. i must love gauri. i never love, i have always loved. love is not love if not felt by one who travels these so, for perhaps only he knows silence that who lives with the rumbles of journeys... gori jooni, i must now abandon all contrite forms of love such as giving one's heart, passion, and seeking requiting and summary. i must now journey further. i must now journey to a different place where love does not weaken or strengthen on response. i must now leave this heart's palpitations and go to a place where the heart awakens with love for that holiness of the generous surround. i must love gauri in a way not seeking fruition. i must remember and remind myself that the most important conversation one has is with oneself. i must learn to awaken that conversation. i must also learn to know myself to know the true roots of my stirrings. i have much to grow gauri, much to grow... CCXLVIII (Appearing in Journal, Fossil 2005) A Tree in Bamyan--A Caravan of Witness to Taliban & Other Unbeknownst Friends of the Buddha In the midst of such birch Among rocks too hard and formed To imagine Stood he Leave-less and Mutely Pained To the Talibs and the Mujahids To Dr. Najib and the Russkies Him, stark, alone The Grand Old Witness To the cases Always out of court Of the Un-Islamic Bamyan |