scribbles siblings

I promised not to look back again, and walked looking on my hind-side without turning head or shoulder yet conceiving wrongly the face of the man;  each time I murmured what I damned, what I promised; I promised not to take goose as one’s childhood or that there is a wet place near childhood therefore. I walked on blindly.

19 Dec 2018

I promised not to look back again, and walked 

looking on my hind-side without turning head or shoulder 

yet conceiving wrongly the face of the man;  

each time I murmured what I damned, and promised; 

I promised not to take goose as one’s childhood 

or that there is a wet place near childhood therefore. 

I walked on blindly.

12 Dec 2018

I didn’t mean to be identical, reduced to a number or a card; 

an empty sky, no crows hanging a wire across; 

an empty cloud with no lambs inside. 

I didn’t want the flame travel away from the candle;  

Through the day they take  my contours away; 

through the night I recover, walking in the dark empty, 

harvested fields, crossing and plunging into the dark patch of trees at the end; 

to redo my lines I light my inside.   

Sometimes, while crossing the field

the lantern in my hand takes my interior 

and I walk holding the horseshoe 

plunged in a river; 

11 Dec 2018

The picture holds an absent dove in the attic; as time goes, 

when the dove is dead, a dove enters the attic – an attic  is a 

transformed dove with harvests and locust; 

a transformation of the picture drawing a line of blood 

on an empty field just withered with scythe. 

7 Dec 2018

A petty is as good as a big– the latter,  

the big, is a little, confined in a hollow big;

a little is little, unscheduled, 

meeting nowhere, in no place, to any.

2 Dec 2018

There was a sea on the western front 

now removed through watching. 

Had there been a corridor leading to the sea, 

the palms by the shoreline running in the wind; 

the branches raining, the wind rinsing, 

had there been a tortoise on the beach perpetually 

reddened by sunset color, had there been 

a clothesline hanging wet petticoats…

30 Nov 2018

Pamela, a front door curtain, now removed.  

She is much fluttered in the wind, heard too many voices

of the playing boys from the beach, too many lanes

she has seen through the corridors between the coconut trees;

She lived like a running clothesline, died

like a housewife sitting beneath the chairs, low and morbid. 

Incorruptible Stick ( 2 Dec 2018, Goalpokher)  

Should I die or the dead should come with the dusk

Should the disc fly alone or let me fly with it

Should senses are compatible with a man under a tree

Should a dry stick be corruptible and die after death

Should a potter’s woman be a mother or taken for a woman only?

One day I may restore these questions.  

A dish (2 Dec 2018)

A dish is served laid on the table when the shoes come

The dish is low, when shoes are high around their piece of meat

One has his own meat; one has his own shoe, one has his 

own naked leg of desire 

The show becomes wet as the dish becomes; 

When the washbasin sings, the table eats alone:

The shoes, the clutter of the dishes, 

the petite leaves fill the portico outside under the star 

as the gaze of a dead man through all windows of the universe.

Asuv Mombati

The wall cleans smears of breath on it with

slender hands of cockroach; goes now the slumber of the light,

 the bowl of brass on the floor washes clean alone

A hammer fallen in water sends stir of water slowly up .

Flashlight had gone, its last ray sweeping on the floor

gently walks back to reach the head of the light through misty road

As there was no sound, the dried lips played its role

My mother said, "Put off the light."

Poem of 2 Dec 2018

I neither pray for silence nor for words like bowls of glass, 

which neither sits nor walks to overthrow container 

with its content

I believe I must endure

to research a way between glass and sand , between 

the bowl and its glass. 

2 Dec 2018

Yesterday I linked to mosquito, its towing 

songs, linked to the man under the tree 

which compared shadows in scripts; yesterday,

I magnified insects, dwarfed me; 

my presumption went wrong, unverified 

for, theory of yesterday rested on yesterday yet  

my groping fingers from the other side of the glass pan 

returned leaving only smears on glass, 

with a shrill around -  rescue, rescue! .  

Scribbles

19 Dec 2018

I promised not to look back again, and walked 

looking on my hind-side without turning head or shoulder 

yet conceiving wrongly the face of the man;  

each time I murmured what I damned, and promised; 

I promised not to take goose as one’s childhood 

or that there is a wet place near childhood therefore. 

I walked on blindly.

12 Dec 2018

I didn’t mean to be identical, reduced to a number or a card; 

an empty sky, no crows hanging a wire across; 

an empty cloud with no lambs inside. 

I didn’t want the flame travel away from the candle;  

Through the day they take  my contours away; 

through the night I recover, walking in the dark empty, 

harvested fields, crossing and plunging into the dark patch of trees at the end; 

to redo my lines I light my inside.   

Sometimes, while crossing the field

the lantern in my hand takes my interior 

and I walk holding the horseshoe 

plunged in a river; 

11 Dec 2018

The picture holds an absent dove in the attic; as time goes, 

when the dove is dead, a dove enters the attic – an attic  is a 

transformed dove with harvests and locust; 

a transformation of the picture drawing a line of blood 

on an empty field just withered with scythe. 

7 Dec 2018

A petty is as good as a big– the latter,  

the big, is a little, confined in a hollow big;

a little is little, unscheduled, 

meeting nowhere, in no place, to any.

2 Dec 2018

There was a sea on the western front 

now removed through watching. 

Had there been a corridor leading to the sea, 

the palms by the shoreline running in the wind; 

the branches raining, the wind rinsing, 

had there been a tortoise on the beach perpetually 

reddened by sunset color, had there been 

a clothesline hanging wet petticoats…

30 Nov 2018

Pamela, a front door curtain, now removed.  

She is much fluttered in the wind, heard too many voices

of the playing boys from the beach, too many lanes

she has seen through the corridors between the coconut trees;

She lived like a running clothesline, died

like a housewife sitting beneath the chairs, low and morbid. 

Incorruptible Stick ( 2 Dec 2018, Goalpokher)  

Should I die or the dead should come with the dusk

Should the disc fly alone or let me fly with it

Should senses are compatible with a man under a tree

Should a dry stick be corruptible and die after death

Should a potter’s woman be a mother or taken for a woman only?

One day I may restore these questions.  

A dish (2 Dec 2018)

A dish is served laid on the table when the shoes come

The dish is low, when shoes are high around their piece of meat

One has his own meat; one has his own shoe, one has his 

own naked leg of desire 

The show becomes wet as the dish becomes; 

When the washbasin sings, the table eats alone:

The shoes, the clutter of the dishes, 

the petite leaves fill the portico outside under the star 

as the gaze of a dead man through all windows of the universe.

Asuv Mombati

The wall cleans smears of breath on it with

slender hands of cockroach; goes now the slumber of the light,

 the bowl of brass on the floor washes clean alone

A hammer fallen in water sends stir of water slowly up .

Flashlight had gone, its last ray sweeping on the floor

gently walks back to reach the head of the light through misty road

As there was no sound, the dried lips played its role

I promised not to look back again, and walked looking on my hind-side without turning head or shoulder yet conceiving wrongly the face of the man;  each time I murmured what I damned, what I promised; I promised not to take goose as one’s childhood or that there is a wet place near childhood therefore. I walked on blindly.

19 Dec 2018

I promised not to look back again, and walked 

looking on my hind-side without turning head or shoulder 

yet conceiving wrongly the face of the man;  

each time I murmured what I damned, and promised; 

I promised not to take goose as one’s childhood 

or that there is a wet place near childhood therefore. 

I walked on blindly.

12 Dec 2018

I didn’t mean to be identical, reduced to a number or a card; 

an empty sky, no crows hanging a wire across; 

an empty cloud with no lambs inside. 

I didn’t want the flame travel away from the candle;  

Through the day they take  my contours away; 

through the night I recover, walking in the dark empty, 

harvested fields, crossing and plunging into the dark patch of trees at the end; 

to redo my lines I light my inside.   

Sometimes, while crossing the field

the lantern in my hand takes my interior 

and I walk holding the horseshoe 

plunged in a river; 

11 Dec 2018

The picture holds an absent dove in the attic; as time goes, 

when the dove is dead, a dove enters the attic – an attic  is a 

transformed dove with harvests and locust; 

a transformation of the picture drawing a line of blood 

on an empty field just withered with scythe. 

7 Dec 2018

A petty is as good as a big– the latter,  

the big, is a little, confined in a hollow big;

a little is little, unscheduled, 

meeting nowhere, in no place, to any.

2 Dec 2018

There was a sea on the western front 

now removed through watching. 

Had there been a corridor leading to the sea, 

the palms by the shoreline running in the wind; 

the branches raining, the wind rinsing, 

had there been a tortoise on the beach perpetually 

reddened by sunset color, had there been 

a clothesline hanging wet petticoats…

30 Nov 2018

Pamela, a front door curtain, now removed.  

She is much fluttered in the wind, heard too many voices

of the playing boys from the beach, too many lanes

she has seen through the corridors between the coconut trees;

She lived like a running clothesline, died

like a housewife sitting beneath the chairs, low and morbid. 

Incorruptible Stick ( 2 Dec 2018, Goalpokher)  

Should I die or the dead should come with the dusk

Should the disc fly alone or let me fly with it

Should senses are compatible with a man under a tree

Should a dry stick be corruptible and die after death

Should a potter’s woman be a mother or taken for a woman only?

One day I may restore these questions.  

A dish (2 Dec 2018)

A dish is served laid on the table when the shoes come

The dish is low, when shoes are high around their piece of meat

One has his own meat; one has his own shoe, one has his 

own naked leg of desire 

The show becomes wet as the dish becomes; 

When the washbasin sings, the table eats alone:

The shoes, the clutter of the dishes, 

the petite leaves fill the portico outside under the star 

as the gaze of a dead man through all windows of the universe.

Asuv Mombati

The wall cleans smears of breath on it with

slender hands of cockroach; goes now the slumber of the light,

 the bowl of brass on the floor washes clean alone

A hammer fallen in water sends stir of water slowly up .

Flashlight had gone, its last ray sweeping on the floor

gently walks back to reach the head of the light through misty road

As there was no sound, the dried lips played its role

My mother said, "Put off the light."

Poem of 2 Dec 2018

I neither pray for silence nor for words like bowls of glass, 

which neither sits nor walks to overthrow container 

with its content

I believe I must endure

to research a way between glass and sand , between 

the bowl and its glass. 

2 Dec 2018

Yesterday I linked to mosquito, its towing 

songs, linked to the man under the tree 

which compared shadows in scripts; yesterday,

I magnified insects, dwarfed me; 

my presumption went wrong, unverified 

for, theory of yesterday rested on yesterday yet  

my groping fingers from the other side of the glass pan 

returned leaving only smears on glass, 

with a shrill around -  rescue, rescue! .  

scribbles

19 Dec 2018

I promised not to look back again, and walked 

looking on my hind-side without turning head or shoulder 

yet conceiving wrongly the face of the man;  

each time I murmured what I damned, and promised; 

I promised not to take goose as one’s childhood 

or that there is a wet place near childhood therefore. 

I walked on blindly.

12 Dec 2018

I didn’t mean to be identical, reduced to a number or a card; 

an empty sky, no crows hanging a wire across; 
an empty cloud with no lambs inside. 

I didn’t want the flame travel away from the candle;  

Through the day they take  my contours away; 
through the night I recover, walking in the dark empty, 
harvested fields, crossing and plunging into the dark patch of trees at the end; 

to redo my lines I light my inside.   

Sometimes, while crossing the field

the lantern in my hand takes my interior 

and I walk holding the horseshoe 

plunged in a river; 

11 Dec 2018

The picture holds an absent dove in the attic; as time goes, 

when the dove is dead, a dove enters the attic – an attic  is a 

transformed dove with harvests and locust; 

a transformation of the picture drawing a line of blood 

on an empty field just withered with scythe. 

7 Dec 2018

A petty is as good as a big– the latter,  
the big, is a little, confined in a hollow big;
a little is little, unscheduled, 
meeting nowhere, in no place, to any.


2 Dec 2018

There was a sea on the western front 

now removed through watching. 

Had there been a corridor leading to the sea, 

the palms by the shoreline running in the wind; 
the branches raining, the wind rinsing, 
had there been a tortoise on the beach perpetually 
reddened by sunset color, had there been 

a clothesline hanging wet petticoats…

30 Nov 2018

Pamela, a front door curtain, now removed.  

She is much fluttered in the wind, heard too many voices
of the playing boys from the beach, too many lanes
she has seen through the corridors between the coconut trees;
She lived like a running clothesline, died
like a housewife sitting beneath the chairs, low and morbid. 

Incorruptible Stick ( 2 Dec 2018, Goalpokher)  

Should I die or the dead should come with the dusk

Should the disc fly alone or let me fly with it

Should senses are compatible with a man under a tree

Should a dry stick be corruptible and die after death

Should a potter’s woman be a mother or taken for a woman only?

One day I may restore these questions.  

A dish (2 Dec 2018)

A dish is served laid on the table when the shoes come

The dish is low, when shoes are high around their piece of meat

One has his own meat; one has his own shoe, one has his 
own naked leg of desire 

The show becomes wet as the dish becomes; 

When the washbasin sings, the table eats alone:

The shoes, the clutter of the dishes, 
the petite leaves fill the portico outside under the star 
as the gaze of a dead man through all windows of the universe.

Asuv Mombati


The wall cleans smears of breath on it with
slender hands of cockroach; goes now the slumber of the light,
 the bowl of brass on the floor washes clean alone

A hammer fallen in water sends stir of water slowly up .
Flashlight had gone, its last ray sweeping on the floor
gently walks back to reach the head of the light through misty road
As there was no sound, the dried lips played its role

My mother said, "Put off the light."

Poem of 2 Dec 2018

I neither pray for silence nor for words like bowls of glass, 

which neither sits nor walks to overthrow container 
with its content

I believe I must endure

to research a way between glass and sand , between 
the bowl and its glass. 

2 Dec 2018

Yesterday I linked to mosquito, its towing 
songs, linked to the man under the tree 
which compared shadows in scripts; yesterday,
I magnified insects, dwarfed me; 

my presumption went wrong, unverified 

for, theory of yesterday rested on yesterday yet  

my groping fingers from the other side of the glass pan 
returned leaving only smears on glass, 
with a shrill around -  rescue, rescue! .  

Recents

last poem