Few Such Words - 1
I began to speak and spoke not,
and those words stuck in my throat
flare now into a poem, this one I write.
But I open and close the book again and again. I don't find a few thousand mouths in me, like those of your river in that far away country, which I need to write what I began here, before I forget, before a winter day breaks.
I am helpless, unable to find words to pluck as fruit from a tree or words like unsteady planets wobbling in their orbits or words that simply fall as snow falls in a dark night, softly, soundlessly.
My words are hard: as a rock, as I, as lines that etch my face, useless words. I need words as fluid as flags waving in the wind, as fluid as a laugh of a silver fish traveling up the river of my blood, words like a woman dressed in dreams that beat their wings around her as they take off like birds into the evening sky, across the blankness of unfilled sheets.
Will you bring me few such words?
Written on 2002:12:12 01:00 Revised on 2006:07:25 Aisde: If I am ever required to write a memoir of infatuations, mostly unacted upon, all I would have to do is follow these blotchy tracks I have left behind. No wonder, with Taepodong like missiles such as these, nothing ever happened. Thank the lord (& the devil too) that I have grown out of that phase of blubbering frothiness. :)
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Discontinuous Sleep - 1
At the periphery of my sleep,
breaking waves is an emotion
I have become a stranger to.
It looks like simple joy and on touch moves that way too, in simple steps down the street.
It opens my door, enters without knocking and stands at my bed waiting for me to awake.
Whose shape is it, whose seamless form? Is it like red wine swirling over my tongue, pungent, pigmented?
Or is it like a dogwood tree in bloom, with flowers like little stars, like snowflakes, which line the avenues in my wintry dreams?
I don't know, I don't know and so I call out, with my eyes closed, "Who goes there?" “Who goes there?”
But on speech it vanishes into the night, opening a door I can't enter tonight: like that red woman who has left me now with these thoughts of wine and flowers, and discontinuous sleep.
Written on 2002:12:12 23:30 Revised on 2006:07:25 22.00 Flippant aside: I must have scared this "red" woman for we never went out again. And as a poem, this barely stands.
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Evidence of Yesterday - 1
You came and left. And in between
There is no evidence of yesterday except
On the desk, a stray hair longer than any hair of mine,
And on the blankets, the smell of your sweat.
Still I forgot so many details in just a day that I wonder If in another I will forget about everything of your visit? Winter deepens and days shorten conveniently, So that their light may not impugn my dark, So that their warmth may not thaw my freezing.
Darling, when your fingers touched me every prison of ice Holding a cell of mine, thawed and cried hot tears. Remember their taste?
Darling, there are no signs left in this wintry landscape. Where everything is snowed in and everything left behind, Our old road atlas is only good for burning as roads have vanished.
Darling, when I see other eyes tonight, I will see Those eyes alone. It is no longer as in those days, When I saw your sad eyes in all other eyes.
Now if you come, you have to come and not leave So that of everything in between I may forget, So that in everything in between I might see, I still may remember your warmth, preserved in salty ice And keep your sad eyes, as some evidence of yesterday.
Written on 2002:12:16 Revised on 2006:07:25
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