Sadness is a Boomerang and other poems

Sadness is a Boomerang and other poems

Sadness is a Boomerang

they say write about happiness
and of faraway lands where the flowers are red and fragrant
and of peacocks and poems and picture books and forests verdant

the song inside is of sadness
of something beautiful, breaking in a flash
or slowly bleeding, oozing weeping sores years after
my lover leaving me mid-kiss on a sunlit evening in Venice city of water
sadness is memory that comes back to bite
in the waves that come and go
my love, have you seen shoals of sprat leaping, falling
as we watch, dying on our feet, the water trickling from under our toes?
sadness is voiceless, eyes morose dead, vacant in its many faces
the other day I laughed so hard my mouth turned inwards and lost shape
l painted a smile on , watched poppy fields turned blue
while the abyss inside mirrors the one outside in a desolate seascape
deep down the sadness in me, in my blood, skin and bones
column-like reaches the skies and boomerang-like pirouettes

What is Unsaid

Unseeing, unthinking
piece words unrelated
flowers in a vase
on the kitchen table
Lark, larkspur, lavender
When the night calls
in words swallowed
in a life past forgotten
Eels, egalitarian, eccentric
then it’s morning
slicing sun through clouds
unopened eyes sleepy sex
harvest, hyacinth, harbour
a month is over
the thought still shattered
ravaged and unformed
the words meant
to disappear in bloodstream
vapid, victory, villify
like Rodin’s thinker
count words on  fingers
the tongue struggling still
to form the unformed
the pen curling, curling
to write the unwritten

Three Poems for My Reluctant Love

The Exorcist
Slowly, slowly, feel my fingers
stroking your forehead
wiping away the five folds moulded firm.
Exorcising you
of her with the long hair
sleeping clouds shaking serpents
of her with the anklets
drawing blood pricking memories
of her with the rings on toes you sucked
dry lips burning mouth
of her with the tattoos
seared into your skin flaming
of her with the dulcet voice
the tongue poisoning you
colouring your throat blue
Exorcise you of the past
fanning tendrils in your limbs
Slowly, slowly, chant in exorcise
Exorcise you
Your mind closes, shuts in
shuts in as I try
Your mind holds the beauties you have known
My love, they are burning you dry!
Healing you, I try
I am the exorcist, I try.
The Poet

I will write you a poem 
It will twist
into you
like a corkscrew 
into stoppered Cabernet Sauvignon 
It will drill itself 
into your heart 
like an augur 
Boreholing hemispheres 

It will sit on your eyelids 
until they close 
unseeing the day
It will sift into your ears 
until they don’t hear 
wolves yodelling full moon blues

I will write you a poem 
to grow in you
evergreen boughs
suffocating weeds

I will write you a poem 
to submerge your words
like rains dissolving earth
to drown your voice
so that you don’t 
word-worship all your muses 
and make me wait my turn
The Birthing
What if this is
the only time we will ever meet
our paths crossing once over lifetimes
in a room like this, with windows in the right place
and doors set the way doors always are, in a corner
what if this is
the only place we will ever chance to be together?
You want a breeze, you wish a balcony with creepers
jasmine, lemon, where we can breathe a little;
the walls close in, all day
there is smoke, unfurling from a cigarette
Then fingers taming what can’t be
fabric that slips off skin like memories
collecting thoughts and acts as keepsakes
Why do the good ones slip through, like silver fish
through fingers, pools of water?
Dark threads rise for days after
There is wine, cold on lips, on the body
more, more, I need more
there is silence, the words we didn’t say
What is never to be:
Why not the flowers I asked for
Why not the pictures to keep forever
Why not the doodles on palms
Why not a desire to let it linger
Why not a plan to whisper together
the poems which were to be birthed
unconceived now, always
there are songs, playing on as if for someone else
What then if this is the only time we will ever meet?
If we’d thought this, if we’d known that was it: the walls,
lights glaring on the bed, this,
this the promised eternity
nothing more to look forward to
would we have looked for a clue
glanced a moment at those vast mirrors
to find an answer in our bodies, curled, prostrate
trying in vain the birthing that shall never be?

Donate Now


*Comments will be moderated