«midnight walk»

the croaking of frogs in heat

muffled by the humid night air

sounds like the pointless ramblings

of tattling hags

wasteful sprinklers

hissing like menacing snakes

water the lush ground

and dampen the air

snails uncoil out of their shells

& lured out of their shady refuges

make an aimless run (as if!) across cemented pathways,

where people and bike wheels

in their blind, demented night tread

punctuate the monotonous midnight drone

with a crack that ends their nightly marathon

leaving behind a (half-finished) slimy trail

(a half-marathon?)

crowned by a gruesome mass of organic bits—

the lone mark of their sorry lives

i do not care to hear any of this

nor bear witness to the carnage of snails

(on better nights a good appetizer...)

and yet i keep my music-bearing vessel tucked away,

too lazy

(read, unwilling)

to choose another soundtrack

for this midnight walk

i walk decidedly,

leaving it all undisturbed,

treading lightly,

making no sound,

cracking no shells,

startling no horny toads,

leaving no mark of my own life

on the road

in the air

in the night

«deluge delusions»

early rains cut short

the summer that never was

grey and deluge

make everything

ashen and dark

but grey does not suit this town

built with rigorous design in mind

inhabited by colors of people

hues of flowers

and asphalt lanes

where metallic boxes—

often too big

driven by people

often too meek—

roll in their smoggy daze

and deluge is out of season at this time

an october made december

by sullen layers people don

by silly boots that they put on

by precipitous steps

fighting precipitation

the only way they know:

by escaping it

in havens of eaves and roofs

filled beyond capacity

«Poezi pa fund»

Kur njerëzish rri rrethuar
përsëri kthehem drejt vetvetes
dhe pak nga pak
një nga një
filloj kundroj gishtat,
duart,
këmbët si lavjerrës
që tokën përplasin
që kohën masin
tek kalon
tik-tak
herë-herë tek-tuk
ku me duk, ku pa duk,
madje,
madje...
.
.
.
[pa fund]

«Escapism»

Sleep with its dark maw shall not find me tonight,
for I shall be a wanderer in the light,
macerating body and limb in the golden sun,
fleeing with it 'til my destiny be done.

My bed shall not feel the comfort of my heat,
nor shall crisp sheets crinkle to my heart's beat;
I shall be an escapèd soul in flight,
tarrying where no eye, nor aught have me in sight.

And when morning comes, perhaps I shall again arrive
to my bedchamber where oft some pleasure I derive:
that of a dream that my sleep imbues
or of a placid awakening with all of Prism's hues.

«hoary temples»

my hoary temples

remind me of dominant genes

and absent melanin

these stubborn white strands

of dead keratin

so colorless that at times can seem translucent

protrude and extend

like symmetrical strings

on a marionette

in the hands of age

«përtej dritares»

në muzg a në agim

në zgjim a në vegim

vështroj përtej dritares

dhe, aq pranë

sa hera-herës besoj se mund t'i prek,

ngrihen të njomë e të brishtë,

të veshur a të zhveshur,

plepat që gjethet fërkojnë

sikur diçka duan të më pëshpërisin:

se gdhiu nata,

se ngrysi dita,

se afrohen erërat,

se largohen shirat,

se fletët po shtohen,

se sot po bien,

se mjegullat ngrihen...

«mbrëmë»

sikur të njihje furtunat

që më vlojnë përbrenda,

ndoshta sytë e tu

ndoshta duart e tua

do të ngroheshin pak

do të më afroheshin pak

mbrëmë kur,

të rrethuar nga të panjohur,

nga kërcimtarë të djersitur,

shikimet rrallë na u puthën

fjalët fare s'u shkëmbyen

«i stuhishëm»

përcaktorin e rrallë që ruhet për ciklonë e uraganë

ia veshe sot vetes sikur deshe me të të

përshkruaje vorbullën që të rrethon

që të rrëmben prej buzëve të saj

drejt nadirit të errët e të

ngushtë ku gjithçka

përfundon në

humbje

ha

rre

së

«another day»

like caterpillars on fleshy leaves
i bite my way through life
and find in it both colour and sustenance...

in sauntering from petiole to tip,
around its curled edges,
and along the mosaic of the veins
that irrigate its cavernous cells,
i find the chlorophyll of life
which,
warmed by the thousand little fingers of the sun,
and by the little words
and fleeting looks of which i am the object,
gives me the myriad of colours and shades
i call 'another day'

«kërkim fjalësh»

kam kërkuar fjalë dhe net
(në orë të mira dhe ditë)
prej zotash që s'kanë emër, trup, a shpirt
dhe në lutjet e mia
është dukur përgjërimi,
lëngimi dhe vaji i një djaloshi
(tashmë çerek-shekullor)
që ndjenjat dot s'i nxjerr
që dashurinë dot s'e shfaq
me fjalë të rëndomta
me ledhatime të ngrohta
a shikime të shpejta
prandaj kërkon hidhërimin
e me çdo kusht zemrën e zhuritur
që t'i mësojë të flasë si flet poeti
(sadopak... sado-)
pa iu prerë fjala që niset

si buzë drejt buzësh
si ledhatim drejt duarsh
e si shikim drejt sysh që dinë të presin
të lexojnë dy fjalë
dhe një pikë loti ta njohin

«voilà que tu t'en vas»

voilà que tu t'en vas
trop loin de moi dans un sommeil
qui te révèle des rêves
que je ne te laisse pas songer le jour

voilà que tu t'en vas
où tu voulais : dans un lit
qui ne veut plus de moi
où je m'absente malgré tout
et après tout

et après tout...
je me demande
si tu te demandes :
qu'adviendra-t-il des jours
partagés, des nuits veillées
parfois, quelquefois, souvent,
et maintenant... ne plus

«Sunflowers in your eyes»

The sunflowers in your eyes

lost their yellow warmth last night.

The jaundiced petals

could not resist

the nippy air of the night

and much less my cold cold heart.

11 nëntor 2008

Image Source

«hopeful faithlessness»

in the sprawling stars scattered into galaxies
constellations have no place;
the eye that sees them has dreamt too much
has dreamt too long
of gods and creatures neither here nor there
nor anywhere

and in the sprawling life scattered across the land
gods and idols have no place;
the mind that believes them has slept too much
has hoped too long
for a life beyond
and forgotten to live this one...

of gods and idols i have heard enough
so heed no assurance of a life after your last breath;
to know that here and now
and in your eyes and mind you exist
is and should be ample hope and all your faith

«la page vide»

la page vide me regarde d'un œil blanc

dont je ne supporte point l'éblouissement

avec chaque lettre que j'y mets

je bâtis des arcs-boutants

pour mon esprit

des perles noires enfilées sur un sens

que je suis le seul à compréhender

pour l'instant

ainsi les mots et les phrases

prennent la place du vide

et maculent la page chaste

—cet abîme affamé—

tel que les gouttelettes pluviales

mouillent et noircissent

la terre sèche

—cette bête assoiffée—

«entre nous»

Je dois me rappeler parfois

que je m'aime

car loin de toi

même mon narcissisme

se noie

se perd et plus ne se voit

dans la distance

que tu as créée.

Il est bien triste

que je sois triste

que je ne te résiste

comme aux autres qui voulurent mon cœur.

(Parfois je me rappelle, aussi,

—dans une haine née de mon amour pour toi—

que je t'aime:

bien plus que corps et cœur

bien plus que moi-même.)

«tabula rasa»

Only empty days remain

to be filled by numbers

counting down to new beginnings.

Only empty days remain

between an old life and a new one

waiting, looming in the horizon

to meet my expectations,

dispel all tribulations

or crush my excitations.

It is all too new,

though not yet come;

and in this novel air

I breathe in what remains

of former atmospheres

and taste it like good and bad smoke

on my tongue;

and it burns my lungs,

and I cough out what

I make out to be the last remains of a past,

'till I am left enjoying the high

of a life of memories carefully culled

and one I have yet to try.

?-13 September 2008

«airport-bound»

The plump gray clouds

that rise above the low mountains

make daybreak arrive with a spark.

The new day barely started

within and around me

continues its steady, pointless

track to its end.

It has nothing to look forward to anymore;

the sun has learned by now

it will never catch the moon.

But I have a purpose:

the lure of hastily cooked,

barely warmed airport food.

Hungry at 06.10 on 9 October 2007 on my bus ride to Logan Airport.

poetic discourse

«question»

the element of surprise is the building block of the body,
the substance of quotidian life -
what, with even the sturdy beams and frames of bones,
pivoting and shifting
all at once like a house on hinges,
you didn't know?
your schedules that pepper
your strict lined papers,
crossed out with the same ballpoint pen that etched them,
routines pried out of a day's pine tree,
as much like lovers' initials as you can make them,
what else is there to rely on?

Jonathan BEARD


«answer»

i rely
on listless days and sleepless nights,
that constant that pervades my days
like graph lines across axes of variables
i do not recognise
they twist and turn and startle me from behind
and wrap around my limbs
and overwhelm the time in my watch's arms...
and only then... with hands tied and feet bound,
am i led along paths where time is skewed
and made to see what to my eyes
has theretofore been mewed

so right you are, my friend,
to say the element of surprise
—though a constant and a strife—
is the very essence of my body,
the substance of my quotidian life...

Solvi

«withdrawal»

to me
you are a bad habit
the viceroy of vicedom
worse than
smoking
to my lungs
drinking
to my liver
narcotics
to my brain
you are a stubborn weed
that makes me fly
high
as a kite
the caffeine rush
to later make me
crash
and a chronic
hormonal cocktail
of testosterone
adrenaline
raging through my veins
to keep me in
flight
to make me stand and
fight
in vain
to let you
go
for

no patch
no hypnosis
no cold-turkey will

help me
rid of you
save perhaps a face

as fair as yours
that will appear

in the

buzz

or high

or low

of your intoxicating

infective

hallucinogen

to lead me

to elsewhere

to anywhere

until that day
i seek

to enter
a temple

a haven
to embrace
a foreign
god

any god
to whom
to pray
and nevermore
to have

to kneel

to you

«alien to me»

You needn't try so hard, my love, to alienate me:
With the nights growing longer and colder,
with your body remaining far
and your love farther,
I myself exceed you and become an alien to my being,
and exile myself from
or in my feelings,
as the night dictates:
for there are those moonlit slumber hours
when all is too clear and I'll none of you;
and those very somber hours
when in my blindness
I become blinder by my love,
deafer by your silence,
and harder by your absence,
until all I see and hear and touch
is alien to me...