Je ne suis pas cela.

 

Je suis — jusqu'ici,

 tout va bien — mais 

avec cela commence 

l'histoire du corps 

et de l'esprit ; 

cette fiction est

 la source de toutes 

nos misères.

I Am Not This

Till I am it is okay

But with that the

Story of the body and

The mind begins

This fiction is the source 

Of all our miseries.

The Banished

 

Voices crowd into my head.
The weather is overcast and grim;
grey clouds obscure the sun.
Characters, structures of every kind,
swirl through my restless mind.

I'm torn between here and there,
belonging nowhere,
except among the corners
of the Globe Theatre.

The Hour Between

In the crepuscular hour,
when daylight loosens its
hold on the earth
and evening gathers its shadows,
I walk alone beneath the trees.

There is a susurration
in the leaves,
a mellifluous murmur
of wind and memory,
as though the earth
were speaking
in a language older
than sorrow.

Then rain comes—
brief, silver, almost evanescent—
and leaves upon
the dry earth
the dark fragrance
of petrichor,
a scent that carries
me to places I can n
o longer name.

Through the branches,
a lambent light trembles,
neither day nor night,
but something suspended
 between them.

And suddenly,
in that quiet,
the world becomes oneiric—
half memory, half dream—
while the last warmth of the sun
rests upon my hands:
a small apricity
borrowed from winter.

There is something
numinous here,
something that makes
 silence sacred,
something indubitable
though impossible to prove
that beauty does not stay.

It arrives like light,
whispers like leaves,
breathes through rain,
and disappears before
 we can possess it.

Perhaps that is why
the heart tries to name it—

though the deepest things
remain ineffable,

and all our words,
however beautiful,
are only candles
held up against the dark. 

The Unresolved

I have sinned
with my words,
thoughts, and actions.
I have to admit
that against you, you,
and you, I have sinned.

If I don't seek your pardon,
I cannot forgive myself.
If I don't confess my guilt,
the conflict will not heal.

When I see my countries fight,
in black and white, or brown,
they are all my own
we are all our own
When I see them engaged
in endless wars,
I feel the weight of knowing
that I never resolved my issues
with you.

If I want my land and water
to be at peace,
if I want my heaven and earth
to be at ease,
I have to resolve the
pending disconnects;
I have to dissolve
the walls of neglect.

Write, Read, and Write

  

If you’re sad or glad,
feeling good or bad,
on days when rain falls
or the skies are dry,
pick up a book and read,
or write—on Word,
or on paper,
let your thoughts take flight.

Write poems that rhyme,
or let them wander free
in the quiet spaces
of open verse.
Write stories that last
a thousand pages,
or capture a lifetime
in a flash of words.
There are no rules
for every thought to follow—
only the courage
to let it out, let it flow.

It may not be very good;
it may stumble, falter,
lose its way—
but write it anyway.
Struggle through the words
as you would through life,
and give your thoughts
the freedom to survive.

Share them with writers,
share them with readers;
let words find words,
and minds find minds.
No gate-crasher here,
no intruder near—
just thoughts that connect
and words that we see and hear.

It’s a better way
to spend your precious years,
even the unproductive ones,
than becoming a puppet
dangling helplessly
from the strings
of social-networking monsters.

Ce qui demeure

Ce qui se trouve au-delà de la vie,
c’est la mort.

Et pourtant, la profondeur de cette certitude
est doucement, silencieusement ignorée.

Ce qui défie la déchéance inévitable,
c’est le désir d’être immortel —
par l’écriture,
par la création de richesses,
par la procréation,
par le désir de laisser
une part de nous-mêmes
derrière nous.

Mais pourquoi donc ?

Si chacun doit mourir,
que reste-t-il
de tout ce que nous bâtissons,
de tout ce que nous créons,
de tout ce que nous accomplissons ?

Peut-être que la vie se situe
quelque part entre
l’utilité de vivre
et la futilité d’être,

une façade de sens
que nous érigeons
face à la certitude
du néant.

The Illusion of Permanence

What lies beyond life
is death.

Yet the depth of this certainty
is quietly ignored.

What defies inevitable decay
is the yearning to be immortal—
through writing,
through creating wealth,
through procreation,
through leaving something
of ourselves.

But why at all?

If everyone dies,
then what remains
of all we build,
all we create,
all we accomplish?

Perhaps life lies
somewhere between
the utility of living
and the futility of being

a façade of meaning
we build against
the certainty of nothingness. 

The Roof

You deprived me of
wealth, intelligence,
recognition—
you, my gathered
destination of faith,
my organisation of work,
of strengths and debilities.

I had my family beside me;
you took that away too.

My only resource left
was my health.

Then, one by one,
my organs sang in chorus:
damaged, defective—
we give in.

And then, all of a sudden,
despite the failing body,
complete loneliness
you came unto me,
wholeheartedly.

I had never been
so full,
so adequate,
so content.

What a wonder
to discover the light
in you,
the glow of happiness,
the quiet yearning
to want nothing more.

The roof that was never
there in the room
sheltered me now—
not from the storm,
but with calmness,
with respite,
with the strange peace
of finally needing nothing.

Tue Reckoning

No matter what harm you do
to others,
The sky will not come
crashing down
On the failing crown,
Hey, brothers.

Laughable rhymes may
overlook unforgivable crimes,
And death, in time, may
balance inevitable birth.

The circle of life moves on,
indifferent,
While the tolerant earth
silently bears
The good, the wicked,
the just, the cruel—
And leaves the
reckoning to death.