A Note to Self

Hold on,

what are you holding on to

and why?

Those ideas, plans, views

opinions of what all under the sky

should be?

 

For waters carry no words.

No stories,

not a single verse.

And every made-up belief

adds a white-picket fence

around your distraction fields.

 

Hold on,

What are you holding on to?

Sink deep, into

spaces that make you quiet.

Dig old forsaken pleasures out,

those fragile bits of absolute silence.

 

You don’t have to answer it.

But you see – what’ll be, will be

and no reason,

no force,

no strength of a grip

ever made a difference.

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A Writer’s Dilemma II

Many of my favorite novels are told from the first person, at least in part. I recently read Erlend Loe’s latest book; in it, he brings back a beloved character, an outcast who doesn’t fit into the world of ‘normality’. The story didn’t appeal to me as much as the first one but the narration was equally captivating. So this outcast comes back after having lived a solitary life in the woods for a few years, and estimates his wife’s new partner from afar. “He is unbearably symmetrical”, our hero thinks, “everything he has on one side of the face is there on another.” (A loose translation on my part as I didn’t read it in English.) Who writes that, if you know what I mean!? Loe has a way with those everyday nuances people take for granted and things that go without saying. You can’t help but feel with this character, and through a simplest of sentences, realize the intensity of his emotions.

(To be continued)

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A writer’s dilemma I

Shaping one’s imagination into gripping prose is a lot like martial arts: the end result doesn’t give away the amount of sweat that goes into the act. You see, my literary heroes seem to have this quality that escapes being shaped into singular advice on plotting, dialogue and such. One could say that I enjoy stories that bring absurdity into the mundane, those that play with my perception of everyday things. If the main character or the narrator is a strong and a captivating persona, the story, to me, becomes secondary; they can well grab my attention by telling me a chicken soup recipe. And I guess I enjoy first-person narratives for that same reason. It’s as if a singular, deeply limited view on events sits well with my own narrowness and helplessness as a human being…

(To be continued)

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Time after time

Allow yourself to remember, in the silence of rain

When stories hush over fields of forgotten dreams

And earthy smell of wet ground, briefly, takes you home

Allow yourself to remember, in the presence of laughter

Where inhales meet exhales on that bitter-sweet border

Of everything that is, and everything that hasn’t become

Allow yourself to remember, when darkness pulls you close

Whispering night terrors whilst dawn holds back

And starless skies make you wonder if price came too high

Allow yourself to remember, as age and diamonds pile

Whenever destiny confirms that her grip allows no escape

Allow yourself to remember me, in moods of the heart, sometimes

Time after time

 

 

Stalemate

Was it what you knew
That drew you away?
Was it that we weren’t aware?
Our arc of togetherness
Is burdened by all said, or unsaid;
We forgot how to be.

Silence and secrets –
Sly balms and weapons –
Too long to aid, too short to awaken
Compassion
Make us opposing figures
In a stalemate game.

Inevitably time flow will
End mutual deafness.
Or innate pulsation of piled decades.
Do you, too, blame me?
We are love stuck in a maze, seeking the line
Of rich and of poor patience.

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The Core

A skeleton
Of us
Shapes of charcoal –
Dead or alive?

Wrecked intercourse
Solitude, and
Milestone-long
Exhales.

If we could share
The magnitude
Of desire
In our orbits.

The jazzy bench
Inside
For those
Who won’t know.

Without continuum
Immediacy
Candor
What will survive?

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