If you wrote there wouldn’t be this poem.
So in the end the page in filled anyhow -
For absences
One is given words, for talk one can borrow
Melodies heard perhaps years ago on shellac,
And let the needle scratch its way through
Dust.

If you wrote there would be no steady blip
Of longing in the heart’s seismograph -
For loneliness
There is always ample time, for these vistas
Of dawn and dusk there is always light or
Nightfall. For you now there is this poem,
This one.




My Poems

After watching an excellent documentary entitled Rivers and Tides on Andy Goldsworthy 'artistic work' with nature that reflects and draws the participant's attention to nature, my well hidden obsession with revealed patterns made by various kinds of detritus in streams, in ossifying tree roots, in the remanents of tree trunks shaped liked the open pages of a book, the head of a bird or a fish, in pebbles that seem to echo the count of time in the way they refelect certain numerals etc somehow begins to make more sense, even if like Goldsworthy I too can't articulate very well what are the aesthetics behind them all.

If you are an artist or want to be one, this is a movie worth watching. You may start paying attention to all stuff concealed in those overlooked margins soon after!

There you pressed a little harder. There an image was shaped. There you wrote rain. There you folded the paper. There is the envelope in a red postbox. There she is reading of rain. There it really is raining. There is the notebook with the torn sheet. There the word rain seeped through. There you face another empty page. There memory teethed.