1.
strangers in a
strange city listening to strangers read their poetry
we vow to be
amongst them next year to be up there next year to be
not so lonely next
year. me in my pockmarked sweater and you in your overcoat
and high heels we
exchange glances from across the crowd and then quickly retreat
pretending to write
something or be completely absorbed in reading what we wrote
for we both know
that fiddling with cellphones is just far too lame
and we won’t
profess to our loneliness, never, but instead claim
that we’re quite
alright writing poetry about our lonely lives
for heartache is
the substrate upon with art thrives
and so we quietly
withdraw under art’s aegis
to cold beds and
blank pages
2.
i‘m completely
smitten by the bodies around
as they twist and
turn into comfortable postures sitting cross-legged on the ground
crouching on the
parapet hugging vertical shins holding the camera up steady still
bending over the
notebook the back a smooth arc the neck flat as over the pages hair spills
the head down horizontal
the first two vertebrae like large beads above the t-shirt collar frayed
standing slouching
against the wall with just a single shoulderblade touching it
your back a sensuous
bow shooting arrows at me screaming to be sketched
hunched over in
chairs the chin on the hand the elbow on the knees
leaning over
sideways until the long earring hangs free
all straight lines
and arcs and lovely shadows deep
if it wasn’t for
the sketchbook i’d probably
be mistaken for a
creep
3.
the faces absorbed
as they contemplate words that resonate
that float about
and hang still around us fluttering about shimmering
amongst the backlit
leaves of the raintree or becoming a part of the masonry
forever embedded
amongst the bricks and the whitewash in your memory
words barely
audible words spoken softly words shouted out loud
words expertly flicked
over the heads of the mesmerized crowd
words that caress
your skin and get under your clothes
and claw at hearts
and choke your throats
words that lacerate
or lift weights off your chest
talking of things
you love and things you detest
eyes sparkling in
awe at the dexterity
with which they
breathe magic into words
and then set them
free
4.
i run around fixing
things
making sure they
run smoothly while my eyes stay fixed on you
i listen to the
words that pour forth and think of what they might mean to you
i hang back trying
to strike up a conversation but there’s nothing interesting that i do
while you are an
accomplished poet with publications and residencies and books and ya, fans too
and you quickly get
surrounded by them and i wonder if famous poets too get lonely sometimes
i wonder if you are
ever spurned by a lover abandoned by words or deserted by rhyme
i imagine getting
to know you and i imagine how if you asked me i would take
great pains to
spell out my mail address very very carefully forming each alphabet
for people i’ve
heard them say have been known to get
lost for nothing
more than a spelling mistake
No comments:
Post a Comment