Poems From Before

I met a stranger on the ocean and he said to me
‘peeling potatoes is wasteful. you should just eat them with the peels’
a grown man
still like a baby
armed and dangerous and morbidly obese
I could see him in the reflection on the window
‘stop’ I said
‘what business do you have here?’
but when I turned there was nobody
I’m sweating and the sky is purple before dawn
break a leg like a chicken egg
nothing comes out
ouch
…pricked myself with a needle
its noisy in the factory
metal banging and clanging against metal
I step outside to smoke on the steps
warm rays hit my face and I said hi
to some birds that flew by
but they didn’t say hi
just flew by

[First poem I ever wrote, circa 2019]

Untitled II

Light on his feet, not a sound did he make,
scurrying away, the gray little rodent.

Wardrums in his ears, no more could he take,
desiring rest, if just for a moment.

But the drums of war, ever so loudly beating,
did not cease, only grew more potent.

[Translated from my native language, circa 2019]

Untitled III

One summer’s evening a ghastly mist did
descend, cloaking everything and all in the forest
as there by myself I frolicked.
Soon, I had lost my way
‘till the skies cleared again, and then–
By Jove! what wonder I beheld.

Overwhelming–it sealed my breath,
made my blood run as cold as ice;
atop my neck the hairs stood erect
caressed by a cool summer’s breeze.
Wide-eyed I marvelled, struck by awe,
before a colossus of times bygone.

Withered, forgotten, long laid waste
by rain and wind–the ravages of time.
A monument–in ruinous decay as it was–
that only masons touched by the divine
could have conjured! So magnificent
it was. Standing there now, alone–
not a kindred spirit in sight.

[An odd romantic piece, circa 2020]

Untitled VII

Forgive me
If it should come to pass,
that our fathers of yore I shall join,
on eternal Elysian grass,
afore those who bore me from their loin.

Forgive thee
My kin, chain’d by blood,
who thrust upon me the burden of Life.
In thy sorrow’s flood, know
that now in Heaven’s Garden I thrive.

[Unused suicide note, circa 2020]

Untitled ?

Invisible eyes
Painted on the walls,
Quietly watching me dry
under the sun.
The ceiling
is holding its breath
(As I drift
into a reverie.)
Thinking
Of leaves of grass, with dew,
And when
I awaken
I can see
It has turned
A soothing shade of blue.

['Twas the summer of William Carlos Williams, circa 2021]

Untitled ??

Delve deeper, man, to the Labyrinth of your own device,
For the power of Perception is granted to the Wise
And to the Fool, to both in equal measure,
So feel every tile and texture, but do it in leisure.
Stop at every junction to take a breath and savour the scent
Graced upon those who are not only on worldly riches bent.
Make your play your days and work as the seasons would have it,
Recall old fables and take heed of the pitfall of the rabbit.

[I was intoxicated on Emerson for a while, circa 2021]

Of the World

The Wind of the World
Blows forth from my lips
Bellowing out the sails
Of a thousand trimeres
On the Eternal Sea

The Whip of the World
Lashes merciless from my grip
Against the broad backs
Of a thousand builders
At the Eternal Desert

The Spirit of the World
Breathes in through my lungs
The cold and crisp morning air
Stood atop a mountain of sentiment
In the Eternal Now

[Came to me spontaneously in one breath, circa 2021]

Tomorrow

A cloud ever shades our life today,
Always ready to drizzle down on us
Its little trickles of sorrow.
And those deathly drops fall heavy
As a clockhand.

[Was challenged to write on a lunch break, circa 2021]

Remembrance

Listless eyes are cast
Above the steppe.
The brittle sky breaks;

Alas, dust settles
On the canvas of the eye,
But it soon is brushed away.

And though “never to be dry”,
The image
Underneath will remain intact:

A blooming red poppy.
Bent by the wind,
‘Tis hid below the grass.

[One of my better poems, circa 2021]

The Lost Mr. Pavier

A witty gentleman and a thief,
A renaissance fantasy with
Scent of arrogance, perfume
Of the parlour, and a whiff of manure
Drifting in from down the street.

A scholar, a bona fide rogue, carrying
Off a leatherbound treasure trove
Of gilded pages, waiting to be found
With a bottle and a mold encrusted tome,
Nodding off in a Frenchman’s cellar.

Startled by the gliding thunder of steps,
Making a drawn-out descent toward
The door – “Zap” across flies an arc of light –
A monitor sputters on; O electric
Post-industrial nightmare world!

[Kitsch homage to Villon, circa 2021]

Oil Lantern

In a breezy corridor
It becomes a projectionist
Of dancers
Moving blithely along
As haunting shades

The eyes of choirboys
White flaming roses
Held captive by
A lusty conductor
In a prison of black iron

The night cleft in twain
By the carriage
Of an impious widow
En route to her new
Lover’s mansion

An insect attracting magnet
A mesmer in the garden
An oil lantern
Metamorphosing into
A talisman of dreams . . .

[Inspired by Czech surrealist Vitezslav Nezval, circa 2021]

Tattered

Wet tiny leaves
wavering on a stunted branch
against the horizon.

In delirium they reach
out above to the passing keel
of a steely cloud—

“Any cloud among
the armada would do.
Any cloud, sailing
who knows where.”

O wind,
wrench the tiny leaves,
liberate them from the branch.

[A scene from my balcony, inspired by HD, circa 2021]

Earthworm Rising

O Eglantyne dare I sing
of your haggard beauty
dare I sing?

Ecstasy of virtue
or aesthetic pleasure?

If truth be beauty
and beauty truth

then what difference
does it make?

I sing:
O Eglantyne
of your pale pink petals
I sing

and I know not
where I got my song
or from whom

but I care not
when I sing:

O Eglantyne.

[Doubting if I want to keep writing, circa 2021]

Verse Ails Quatorzain

A leg paralyzed paradox
perambulates into a bar
and orders a pilsner pint—

poet please put an end
to your alliterating,
already it is growing

more and more tiring.
Oh, I see, now you’re rhyming.
Ha-ha! how amusing. You sh’d

just stick to jokes and prose
and leave verse to those
who write more better [sic] asso-

nance – Oh, now I’m really incensed:
Bartender! where’s my pint?

[Trying to be clever, weary of poetry, circa 2022]

Lavalamp

Disturb it
and it bursts into flames;
Like a million chameleons
on the field of battle;
Charging against black salamanders,
Their formation breaks
and they scatter. . . .

[Simply delightful and unpretentious, circa 2022]

Notion of Snow

A perfect
nothing.

A scarf wrap-
ped around

my neck;
like winter

is so cold,
nothing,

through the
negation

of heat—so
the end

is nothing,
but starts

with the negation
of beginning:

thus something
rather is

nothing—life
is but

the negation of
birth and

the decaying
warmth

of your hand.

[First poem I am happy with, circa 2023]