I desire the soul of the moment – To eat the heart of desire, To pulsate with the sex of the meal
And to take passion for my time. I will not will, but act… Thus behavior is its own text. Take one touch of my green hand To leap into the forest. What can I say in my saying That will alert you to this upturned need? Can I embrace your shadow? Can I taste the echo of a leaf?
The listening apparatus
Is silent –
Ahead of sound –
Your eyes gush
Like awakened
Blake.
From: kolkata, west bengal, India
About me: What would I be saying If I said, ‘The sky is true’? Would the dream pass more slowly If I lowered my voice, bassooned my vowels? No end to wonder, I find, And the evening mist is still. I talk in allegory when I speak to myself. I walk up the hill – my spirits rise. The process ‘saying’ again Is always about itself, about something Other than its content Its statement and assertion. I reach with every word For the truth of what I find— I miss and then I say something else. The reader, myself included, Gets only the altered after-saying. Where is the sky in all this--? The measure wavers – the link is broken – Disturbed, a trial of what is, Wanders, palpitates, grows worn In its youth— Like a design by William Morris Or brothel in Joyce’s arcane language.
,2:35 AM
the one who sang to the sunbeam
It's a song
Calling you lover
Catches your breath
And holds your heart
Still for a moment
Breathless
Weightless
Where was i
Speeding through eternity?
Frozen in time
Color fades
Focus blossoms
Blinding light
Head rushes
Gone in time
Back again
The spirit flies
While i stay watching
Hope holds
To the color
Pyramid of rainbows
Someday,
I'll disappear from here
Forever flying
My spirit and I
Watching......
Calling you lover
Catches your breath
And holds your heart
Still for a moment
Breathless
Weightless
Where was i
Speeding through eternity?
Frozen in time
Color fades
Focus blossoms
Blinding light
Head rushes
Gone in time
Back again
The spirit flies
While i stay watching
Hope holds
To the color
Pyramid of rainbows
Someday,
I'll disappear from here
Forever flying
My spirit and I
Watching......
Wednesday, January 16, 2008,1:19 AM
SOME POEMS ARE NEVER WRITTEN AND THE ONES THAT I WISH TO READ EYES CLOSED
I wish to read the poem that isn’t there.
It is in another book.
It has not been written.
My dream is at an end.
Take me with you to the park.
Face me toward the sun in the trees.
I can hear the voice
Broken, intent, alive,
Making a Saturday afternoon
--a place to start.
I can see one dog chase another,
Chasing time
And the church bells.
Children grow their millimeter for the day.
Hold tight to the sky.
We are all juggernauts of passion
Trying the sun
Trying on laughter
Dressed in each other’s arms.
Where it is, I do not know.
Some notebook in a drawer.
In a room full of curtains
And nuances.
In my sKirt pocket.
It is in another book.
It has not been written.
My dream is at an end.
Take me with you to the park.
Face me toward the sun in the trees.
I can hear the voice
Broken, intent, alive,
Making a Saturday afternoon
--a place to start.
I can see one dog chase another,
Chasing time
And the church bells.
Children grow their millimeter for the day.
Hold tight to the sky.
We are all juggernauts of passion
Trying the sun
Trying on laughter
Dressed in each other’s arms.
Where it is, I do not know.
Some notebook in a drawer.
In a room full of curtains
And nuances.
In my sKirt pocket.