19 Dec 2018
12 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.
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.
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;
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,
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
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
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.
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
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."
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
with its content
I believe I must endure
to research a way between glass and sand , between
the bowl and its glass.
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;
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! .
returned leaving only smears on glass,
with a shrill around - rescue, rescue! .
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