You are on page 1of 7


I listened as I flute in Other Tongue
(My sweat in Other Tongue)
And cared about ears of other Minds
And minds of other Ears
And mutes my Muse!
I shall glide muse-ward
And dare not mute
The recklessness
From my flute,
You learn to leave
My lines to my class,
I must live in the world
That lives in me!

‘Hello!’ I yelled, animated.
It was my tenth try.
I heard the view, and imagined.
Door closed. Counterpane–a sanctuary. Panes shut.
The room, once heavy,
Now light–perhaps–of me.
Our picture–the first– and first in that anthology….
‘Do you remember….’I began,
The breath, as it came, healed
And rose like sea waves.
‘…the night we ate in the light of the moon,
And what we ate?
Cakes you taught me to bake,
They were poor cakes
And my tongue admits this
But you were too blind,
Blind to despise it, ’cause fondness
Was your discrimination.
And to you they were the best,
The best you ever ate.
And now, now oh heart,
Why are these, these I baked under
Guidance of glorious hands
The worst you’ve ever seen?’
Our pressures climbed, psychosomatic.
Hers, transmitted. A wave of reminiscence.
The light turned blue, reversed.
‘Again….’I came, caught she was
The bed and its props, now alive.
‘…in your twenty-second,
The flowers I brought–red they were
And you counted them, you cherished them,
And that noon you called, with a eurekan mood

We sat on leaves and talked of trees We sat by river and talked of it bank. Barometric silence. Mortified. And creatures in her womb. You said of my voice–as awful as it is– “It’s the best bass I’ve ever heard. I paid. You’ve seen a sedulous man and I had seen a nursing mother And had said it was you The cloud we looked and had Disagreed ’twas fortuitous. off this?’ GAMETE-TO-GENESIS Halved. in your fourth Why ask “what colour are these?”’ Obduracy broken. unlike– Before the wake– Death was its finale. In years. Still ’twas whole and Now reduced. for years And through years. waning still. And your world when opened. I’m……”as it came. too soft for ears. And time tames to train In the tail of epididymis. Thoughts I felt. we drank soda with peppered leaves. you were out of yours And your presence was my drugs…’ Network. Worsened. One.” I sang you poems and You wrote me songs In clamshells. the full blown moon And made accounts. waning. many and millions. Characteristic. As it came. dual. .“I’ve found the white spot in these flowers. I knew she’s now up. We watched the moon. Sartoli pruned. Noise. in halves I was halved. ‘Shan’t we rather speak of this. began–at the protest Of nerves and hormones– The preening other half. Their blunder. denied I was–its span. We closed our eyes and wrote our wishes We wrote all the same– You were mine and I was yours.” Now oh fave. “Wait. Frictioned fissure. When I was in bed. above my voice. At after times. Pale Strange and crackling. ‘I was your dream when your eyes were closed. I heard her beats. We walked in the rain And strolled in the sun We spoke of the singing birds And crooned at their lead.

sultry season.’ Her mien withered from mystification. honeymooned. This heart is for one! They coursed the limb. Not Our leaders. alone.Before the wake was its wait. though behind. I envy your prudence. Sward. They lead us though– Our land wanes! . and so are we all. to the cavern Excited. Our heart lost. Reduction unequal. ‘Lincoln. A cavern of two holed boughs. they stayed. to become one. Through pain I came. They met in pleasure. An expedition of masters to a paramour. It takes two. Why live in Hell?’ THE LOST MINDS I queued. Was my mind not hers? Air. ‘I am here to be there. it came. The upshot lacks my pulse–Our pulses. That wafted The other half to the ampulla– Breadth of my halves meet. A leader’s mind is mites from the people’s. ‘Take me serious’ I warned. In clothes and coats it grew. by a strand. These are not of Our mites. Hence I cried and exclaimed ‘In you is Heaven. Sylvan sheltered. hence we’ve not been heard. And stranded. Fingers tetanic. The other. Affray! Incredulity. The air grew genetic. Our voices were not seen. women. It was my first franchise. Site of my first the people…” I see “by some people” that lacks Our pulses. In millions. is the Fruit fly’s this fast? They purloined Our votes–Our voices. and its Partings were for death Attained fully at the meet. And pain I met. you said “…. the pulse has stopped. But pursue Our purse’ They purloined Our votes. Prepared for its course. through time. Since alone it must be met.

with the Wheel of the lame. by shrouding the course. and hence I grope. like one with a pen. I grope like a paddler who was off his course since his last was in drear. In the dark I walk. Every sight and sign a clue became. I called to my mind As a man to his lord. that wrote obscure. once revealed. this time with my legs. in a sultry morning. Now I war through gropes. None gropes but him that relies in the day. poets make poems. Poets are the bricks of poems. Confused still. the end. ‘where lies my next?’ The day had shown what the dark hid. Detained I was. with none to call. but the way you’ve hidden. For the end you divulged. The dim is now clear and the clear now dim. plump from its plow. Dark seem dear. hence the end! . I coursed the lane. and I thought I was blessed on arriving at the end. you have shrouded. THE CONFUSED. I was lamer. Since ago I’ve been there. To this end I must go. and my mind wrote obscure–since of the two. remains my only beam. As transparent as the sea. in the details of the day. next to its nest. Dark! Oh drear dark. the bane of mortal eye. and my mind. And dark seem dear for shrouding the lane–a distaste to sight. My gluteus assumed the pride of my legs. penning to be poet for poems do not make poets. in the day I war. with its melody beckoned its Architect. like a swift with glorious plumage. on dark’s guide. My mind as my lord and not as a lame. This caused My memory of it dementic. through gropes.

All birds blubbered. for they sleepeth. II Thy forename. And no man died. The mountains melted. O Death. And thrice hast I calleth thee In places where thou art deafest– Our roads. And wreathed in sable garbs. The sight thou lovest to behold Hills. stones and brutes thou seizeth not. thy amended Oath– The dread of death. Its scorn now became. I shall dread not thy vehemence. And the count of my miss–I prayeth not quicker– Shall my offspring live to pen. The day the Sun sang. amongst them beasts. As their hearse they steer to gloom! Thy Oath. in memorial. adored With the chrysanthemum of conquered wools– Men. THE DAY THE SUN SANG The moon stood. and I Shall spill laughter and contempt When at last my cells. IV I heard thy cry Hippocrates! From the great archive of thy Grecian grave Of the handsome womb of Larissa– In the deepest bed of Medicine’s birth The ones to send thee wreath. women and oh.THE LIVING DEATH I Thou embraceth men. . in protest. Thou hence reigneth. homes and hospitals. is thy death. Our abodes. their guns they turn. All goats flew. The sea sank. to thine whim concedes. III Thy indiscipline unleashed For reign of it amongst our lords And these. All insects sailed. for In count of such shall my pen in want of ink be. children alike Their kin lie in murky moods. For their poor mien. I have heard.

It grows to bang. Unseen at sight. but those of a Prophet! FOOLS AND THE FAULTED FOURTH. No undies lined. Feathery though. I saw a man. Only a match lit. The day the Sun sang.And no woman menstruated. That the Sun should ever sing! IT CLIMBED It climbed. The day the Sun sang. And no life slept. It lacks horns. and I asked in fret and afraid. That I took from a wreck. before it was seen. And no baby cried. and In his hand was a saw. ‘Have you a farm?’ I read in a book. is Hiroshima! Kill. Only a star shone. and By his side was a French. I saw it. Of the moves by the ruke. Animals flinched. And no creature ever wished. What can. it stole gravity. No cloth washed. No shoe was worn. should be canned. yes kill. and I asked in a surge ‘Is that a sword?’ I met with a friend. Only a wood burned. Mankind wailed. Bits though at birth. . that match. The Scree firm. left on–ignored Ignored! Now it gores. The day the Sun sang. Dead bodies respired. The savvy-ious words from experience Are not ravings. In that spark. Unfelt at touch. for it kills. Whose eye saw? Whose nose perceived? Whose hand laboured? And which being ate? The day the Sun sang. Up it climbed.

I have seen the gift it gives in the very hands that denies its largess. praises unsung and love denied. Life sometimes. that squeezes tears unshared. until late. Death takes to give and its gift remains with it. Say no evil of death. And in her mien I heard her ask ‘Are you a Fool? DAYS AFTER DEATH Of man is nothing more said than in few days after his death life’s not rated. This again shall I say: Are not many devils angels turned? . preserves for misery but death takes to give.And asked ‘isn’t this rude?’ I spoke with a woman. I shall of its evil speak of the repercussion of its grip and the futility of its gift. That I addressed as a man. That though life seems a miser. the remnant of its greed and the very essence of its creed.

Related Interests