your poem II

there are no more words left

except to speak with you

no more time left

except to be with you

the world shrunk

and all i can see

are you and i

standing tall

on a small patch of land

holding hands

the sun is burning bright

on the horizon

and i cannot say

if it is sunset or sunrise

it doesn't matter so much

anymore

because the only space left

is next to you

your poem

how does one read

the petals of a flower?

is it enough to learn

the whispers of a june cloud

as it pulls itself away,

racing across an evening sky?

or study the traces of the sun

left in your eyes

after a long and lazy morning?

the lines of your heart

are not easy to untangle

their edges are tinged

with melancholy

the letters are primes

divisible only by themselves, and one

and when they move

it's like an oak tree on a hill

dancing with a summer breeze

when i met you

i stopped glancing

over my shoulder

there were no shadows

chasing after me anymore

the only place to look

was in the palms of your hands

and holding your fingers

became the dance of life

i stood at the top

of the highest rock

i could find

facing westward

and i saw your face

as big as life

with that smile

that never tires of me

you called to me

and i knew

you were not being selfish

when i jumped

you embraced me

and before i hit the water

way before

i was already with you

i was not gone

broken

when i kissed her

blood started dripping

from my lower lip

it was a gentle touch

of the flesh

but her face

was a broken mirror

reflecting a shaken image

of you

the ink i filled my pen with

refused to touch the paper

no matter how hard

i tried to negotiate the lines

the words smiled at me

sadly

then disintegrated

it was not a question

of writing a letter

that refused to be written

sitting at the edge of the universe

does not bode well

even though at times

we don’t have a choice

especially if we were born

there

we break too many doors

trying to get in

and when one opens

gently

you are not there

because who you were

crashed against the hard surface

i have become

so go ahead

throw your scarf in the river

it will float for some time

then sink

no one will see it after that

but you will know it’s there

and that will be your poem

the cheapest wine

that yellow flower

you gave me

lighted my days

and afterwards

i could not understand

how the color turned blue

it defied many logics

something broke

and the shards pricked my feet

i was suspended in a space

of my own making

the climb down

was the longest journey

the deafening sound

in my ears

was of a waterfall

and i could not speak

it was not what you wore

that i disliked

but what you wrapped yourself with

was wearing thin

and the nakedness underneath

alarmed me

there were no writings

on the wall of that cave

nothing came out

and it smelled like an ending

our last meal

was a hand rolled cigarette

all crumpled

and left out to dry

because the cheapest wine

i tasted from your lips

Fado

To turn sadness and the emotions of loss into such an elevated form of spiritual resonance with life through music is an amazing feat! There must be something special about the Portuguese.

Please click on Mariza and Mariza 2 under Good Links...

Must We Always Fight?

The portrait you painted

was of a wounded man,

his emaciated face, with cropped hair

stared at me

for weeks.

The figure is standing straight

facing me

but I walked away

with an image of a bent man;

he was not broken

but the dark, grayish

red that has become

your signature of late

haunts the canvass

like a shroud.

The marks on his body

seemed like gashes,

they were long and vertical,

and deliberate.

The scene reminded me

of a Fairuz song;

something about the eyes of a woman

being mightier than the sword.

And I wondered why

he was cut

every time you looked at him.

Strange that you could only

talk of the Giacometti feet;

how determined

and grounded they were...

I saw them tired,

naked and cold.

It would have been a beautiful picture,

if it wasn't for the pain.

Days on the Mountain

Last night

the face of the moon was ragged.

And I did not need to turn over

the remains of your Turkish coffee cup

this morning

to speak of the coming days;

Fortuna's lines were drawn

with the first sip.

The old water heater was making a sad

wailing noise

interrupted by silences,

as if lamenting a death

or the soft cry of an animal in pain.

You always told me to look

for the signs of the universe

everywhere

in the simplest of places.

It talks to us, you said,

and sometimes we can hear it

but the words take strange shapes,

like a spider on a wall,

or a piece of string

crawled up and twisted

lying innocently, on the floor.

Yesterday, there was a mild earthquake

and the couch I was sitting on

rocked, gently

back and forth.

At first, I thought it was my heart

trying to shake me back

into one repose, or another.

But it was a nod from earth;

an agreement of sorts..

Answer to a Shabbat Invitation

A pleasure, as always,

to break bread with you

The sea is calm

The sky is blue

We can talk of all things

big and small

India and China

even the wall

My concern is

to have enough time

to sing songs of praise

and remember a time

When a man stood tall

brave and sound

and another stood still

and later flew

Uta's Song

What magic lies

Within your eyes

What smile

Is it the sun

To cross

A thousand

And one a mile

To hold a hand

And beg

For that magic spell

Cambridge, MA

1986