Posts
Prelude
for Mallarme, Eliot and Debussy
1.
Winter.
all afternoon she has written letters.
and as the lane turns lonelier,
she stands in the snow,
weak, by the red postbox…
not knowing whom to send
the three letters…
she has written all afternoon.
2.
then fire devours the neighbourhood
snowflakes electric
and the red box sucks her inside…
she falls…
she pierces the black earth
like a cold needle…
through violins and screams
she falls…
3.
the dead receive her
in that dark city…
she stands among ghosts now
the priest
the poet
the queen
all dead. all ugly.
they were waiting for her letters.
In that dark city.
4.
there is a river
at one end of the city…
the boatman calls out,
his ghost resembles an old lover
he rows her
to that part of the river…
where night and day merge wings
the sky is fire and purple,
the orgasm.
5.
she remembers her neighbourhood,
the snow…
and the red postbox that devoured her
she remembers the eyes of the dead
that the letters made
so happy…
and a whale stabs her with light.
12 comments:
Brilliant...! more so cuz one can read from any dimension one wishes to...whether in desolation..or in pain..or in poetry or in ecstacy..or in prayers...smartly easy with the words...i lyk the entire play of sequences here....
Brilliant - that says it all I suppose.
Beautiful.
Reminds me of the fragility of... of everything.
I miss the Winter.
Hey buddy, I devoured some of your works in The Statesman. They were really stunning, the thing I liked most about them was the random,jagged and yet spontaneous flow of ideas. Went through your blog, liked it even more. Great work.
Come by ur poetry in the Statesman. Ever so often, a particular name used to pop up, and I resisted my urge to skim through.
Just thought of checking out the stuff on the blogosphere.
btw, u must be tired of hearing this but what the hell: U write very well.
simply awesome..:)
must you make a proselyte of me yet?
Very raw, fluid and yes your poetry does find the one who wants to read
she had such a vision of the street,
As the street hardly understands....
The world revolves round like ancient women,
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.
Such an evocative thought, the red postbox sucking you in... like something I always thought might happen. Beautiful writing.
very very realistic.
this has to be my second favourite (other than painter, my friend!)
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