The Quiet Art of Being

When I hold your hand, my friend,
I know the days are golden and will never end.
We'll sail through thick and thin;
I draw my strength from somewhere within.
I'm so happy and complete;
It doesn't matter if I lose or win.
I forget to fight; there's no appetite to compete.

But the day you left me, my friend,
I was shattered; I couldn't pretend.
Sadly, the world for me had fallen apart;
The way you hurt me broke my heart.

Days were long, nights lonely;
The bed lay in darkness, weeping and moaning.
My breaths were heavy,
My hands forlorn;
Moments dropped dry as the pool on the lawn.
I was scared to dream
Of a fresh new dawn.

But time has taught me to begin anew,
To see the world in its different hue.
I walk alone, yet feel no void;
I've found the peace I once destroyed.
The silence no longer weighs me down,
Nor does solitude make me frown.
I've learnt that life can still be a winsome whole,
Even when there's none to befriend my soul. 

Born Anew

When I hear these waters
rolling down from somewhere
I imagine it as a hidden place in
a mountain where treasures are stored,
tears of joy roll down my cheeks
For all that I have lost,
 have learned.

When the softest light falls
upon the earth from somewhere
I imagine the sky,
wisdom dawns within me,
teaching me peace.

When darkness falls
and the day disappears
Somewhere I imagine
to be nature’s memory,
wisdom, tolerance, and acceptance
are born anew.

 

The Gap

 Silence, words, silence.

A thought, a doubt, a requiem.

A daydream, a nightmare, the stories.

The void, the voices, the echo.

A whisper, a scream, a sigh.

The heart, the hurt, the hope.

A tear, a smile, a lie.

Love, violence, wealth.

The truth, the mask, the mirror.

The distance, the longing, the loss.

The question, the answer, the silence.

Between the

words—

you, the other, the gap.

The Applause Has Faded

 

I don’t remember when my mom

stopped feeding me, when she stopped

cleaning me. I vaguely remember

when my father stopped walking me to places,

when my parents stopped scolding me,

when they stopped teaching me maths,

physics, and geography.

I remember the faces that smiled

because I giggled, the hands

that clapped when I finished my food,

when I learned to say

A, B, C.

And here I am, that same child,

now a man writing poems in silence,

learning the lessons of life;

cooking, eating, taking care of my health,

talking to walls, pressure cookers,

furniture,

and the pages of history—

all by myself.

The Boat That Stayed

 

With my boat, I am going nowhere.

The sails, the mast, the boom lie still,
though the wind keeps pressing against them.
The rigging and lines have grown weary;
even the keel and rudder seem tired
of carrying me nowhere. Hence tied.

There is an unspeakable sorrow
in knowing that tomorrow,
when another dawn breaks,
I may still be here—
anchored to the same place.

Around me, the waters awaken.
The port stirs to life.
Other boats slip quietly into the morning,
their sails catching the restless wind,
their hulls gliding towards distant horizons.

Every dawn seems to renew them;
every morning gives them another beginning.

But I remain.

I am in a fix—
caught between staying
and setting myself free.

Perhaps I should sell the boat,
let someone else take her out to sea,
let another hand hold the wheel,
another heart trust the wind.

Yet how does one sell a boat
that has carried so much of one's life?

So I sit here,
listening to the water
and watching the others disappear
beyond the harbour mouth,

wondering whether my boat is truly anchored—

or whether
I have simply forgotten
how to sail. 

The Words

The same words,
different verse—
fear, joy, love,
bitter, sweet,
punched in and out
of sentences,
of days,
of lives.

They have said it all before,
yet mean something new, tragic, or fun
each time they return.

Love once meant forever;
now it means letting go.
Joy was once a song;
now it is the quiet flow
between two sorrows.
Fear was once a warning;
now it is the shadow
of things already lost.

Bitter and sweet—
two words we keep apart,
though life has always known
they belong together.

We keep rearranging the words,
changing their places,
changing their clothes,
hoping perhaps
they will tell a different story.

But the words remain.

It is we who change—
we who grow weary
of giving them meaning,
we who discover
that every sentence
has been written
with a little of ourselves.

The words.

The same words.

Different verse.

And now, I'm exhausted,
I have nothing left to say—
except perhaps this:

sometimes silence
is not the absence of experience,
 it is the experience of absence.
Words can neither heal, nor harm
They can neither hurt, nor charm.

It is what remains
when the words
have finally told
the truth.

The Unwritten History

 

To understand our story,
you must think as we do—
in minds thick with blankness,
where words lie submerged,
waiting like bubbles
to break the silence.

I have nothing to offer
except my willing hand.
You may travel through time and space,
across the seas, across the land;
I shall walk beside you
through every night and dawn,
and wherever your journey leads,
my hand will hold you on.

But there is no promise of words.
I cannot rest until you deliver
what lies hidden beneath the silence.
You will have to think as we do,
feel what we cannot utter,
and gather the scattered fragments
of what we have been—

for only then
can our unwritten story
find a voice,
and our history
live beyond us.

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.