instead of lyricism

It’s true what they say

its only a half step from love to hate

Didn’t even realize that we were in fact

Walking in any direction

apparently half of a step is sufficient

movement for two

to change from usual convoluted

but nevertheless very obvious

me and you

to what is obvious to me

alone

you have grown more reserved

than your semi alien-

“how angry do you get when I don’t respond on the scale from one to ten?”

tired of my stories that matter to no one really not even me if I am really being honest

Come on. Really? How many times can one begin a story with – I wish I was-would-be- someone- somewhere-else

i sometimes wonder if I type-talk too much only to interrupt hard-to-argue-silence of my thoughts

but only sometimes

the rest of the time

I am too busy typing-driving-making-baking-faking- taking

breaking-breaking- breaking

 

To escape the silence

you left

after you left

me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Where Does Anger Come From

Someone whispers- this isn’t yours.  You aren’t his favorite.

She said her kids have normal noses

And hence she should bear more children

into this already overpopulated world with an apparent overabundance

of children with noses that aren’t normal

I listened to her and couldn’t help but look at her wart

Someone in here already wrote about warts

Turns out I am not only unoriginal but am also bitter

Slay my little trite memories

Dues must be paid

I must not be such a quitter

Tick tock tock tick

A better response would have been –

Who do I fuck around here to make more children with normal noses

Without arrogance and poses suggesting attitude

without warts and judgement

with hearts that beat to the rhythm of kindness

More so than time that carries all this bitterness

tick tock tock tick

One moment please – I already have two.

Screw your charmless little comments

In the moment that was yours.  But this poem is mine.

And it is finished.

 

Amusements

you know that feeling that you stop enjoying

as soon as you hit a certain point

of aging,

let us remain optimistic (for as long as we can!)

and say – growing!

The poignancy just like the devil that hides in details,

Hereafter lies in the fact that

Regardless of what you call it

You age and you hit that point.

Whether it triumphs at Twenty-Five, or Forty

Largely depends on your blood pressure and over-all outlook –

(The stillness of your half -empty-glass against the jiggle in glasses of others)

The point as I know it is –

The-initial-slow climb of the rollercoaster, previously known as the anticipation of adrenaline

(What is it about hands in the air that inexcusably signals youth?)

Becomes focused tension of a solitary question,

Why the fuck am I here?

I have hit that point a while back

Climbing towards the initial drop-decline

With a similarly crude question in my mind –

Am I too old for what you offer?

Variation on Nazim Hikmet’s – Things I Didn’t Know I Loved.

its August 12, 2015

I am sitting half here half not

here

Day is starting

or rather it is halfway through

The day

I don’t like when leaves look scorched by the sun

even though

it rained the day before

Rain doesn’t affect the leaves that have already dried.

I didn’t know I loved women as friends

can someone who has never been friends with women long enough

say I love them?

“it must be my only platonic love”

All this time I gave my allegiance to the opposite sex

friends

Cataloging their presence and their absence with almost methodical accuracy

Until redundancy of it all glared at me like a lion at Southwick Zoo

-Get me out of here, it only looks nice if you are a visitor-

Before zoos became objectionable in my mind

But long before my friendship became objectionable in yours…

I don’t know

Whether I should have sat motionless and said nothing

Like a heap of old grass, withered leaves on the ground ready for the cold

If you forgot that I was sitting there, forgot that leaves were there

Like an irresponsible landscaper.

Snow would shield me/them until next spring…

But wearing white doesn’t make one innocent or pure

Otherwise all brides would be virtuous and faithful by default

I was neither.

I didn’t know I don’t like being immoral.

I didn’t know that you didn’t either.

I know that laughter really is the best medicine

Laughing with you, however, is something I am yet to do.

I know that none of circular banality of my thoughts has troubled people before

And I know it will not trouble those after me

Or at least I hope it doesn’t.

I don’t like when people communicate in an all-knowing voice

I wonder

Whether they understand that it robs them of humility

Which quite possibly is the highest form of being human

I know all this has been said and felt a million times before

“and will be said after me”

I didn’t know I loved thunderstorms as much as I feared them

First chapter’s Jane Eyre loved them too, as she stood by the window waiting for change

Change that thunderstorms inevitably bring

And now I know you love them too.

What change are we waiting for?

I didn’t know I loved the ominous sky

Much more than the unspoiled azure

I always liked Babel’s Benya Krik with his dizzying synchronized preference for blood and passion

Predictability yet again – all girls like bad boys.

I didn’t know how much I liked them

Until I watched him whizz by us intoxicated

I heard voices

Not from the window of my car, but from anyplace inside my fondness for depravity

Nourished all the more by the voices inside your head

Voices in mine –

I didn’t know how much I hated them

Until I saw you struggle with your own.

I didn’t know how much I loved alcohol –

Its bare ability to make one comfortable in London, Rome and Moscow all the same

My dear, the problem with voices is solely in their multitude

If you can silence most except one –

All is well that ends well.

(Did you know that the above was the first title Tolstoy chose for his eventual ‘War and Peace’

Yes-yes, the one Nazim Nihmet translated in prison, but the one that Tolstoy wrote trying to extricate himself from the prison of his mind)

This is why I like literary criticism. It makes me kinder. Never to envy anyone’s gift. It  comes in a gift-box few people can lift.

“I never knew I loved roads”

Unless that road is away from time with you.

My husband behind the wheel we’re driving from Los Angeles to Boston

Formerly three letters that could have spelledl PhD

“the two of us inside a closed box”

And I am thinking of what could have been with him and many before him.

But I didn’t have you to tell me that these are just thoughts.

Back then it was just me and my voices.

I didn’t know how much I hated them until I saw you struggle with yours.

You Rescued me from a Rat (take 2)

(I reworked this old poem into a prose poem with the help of my phenomenal poetry instructor at Grub. Excited and in love with the craft)

I dreamt that you rescued me from a rat.  In a nameless hotel, somewhere in the center of an equally nameless town…You and I, notwithstanding the rat, as subjects of the same sentence, are a rarity in itself.  In all my proximity to you that, incidentally, does not exist in any town that bears a name. I warn you, kind Reader, the details will be limited.  After all, none of this actually happened.  I dreamt it, memorized having previously imagined it with great care, I wrote – you rescued me from a rat.  Another disappointing side note (should have really been included as preface). The rescue was utterly unromantic.What on earth possessed you to write of all people about me? (Mihi crede, it wasn’t your characteristic monotone.) As you and I age, something remains (prior to our actual remains, pardon the pun). You are oh-so-fortunate to be able to blame bad memory and to have wished your good one away. I hold on to our, even if coincidentally shared memories; cut and pasted.But back to the dream…You sojourned with your family – new wife and two girls, the oldest – little you with lighter hair, lighter you. I was staying alone, with pages upon pages of stories to read and my own to imagine…Sitting on pillow top (on top of the world, really!), drunken in my happiness to attend a literary conference. (Didn’t I warn you about utter lack of romance?) Amongst other treats was a tidy room, ambition to write and delicious quiet…But right when I got situated on top of a queen sized bed – a rat scurried across the floor. Priorities shift and I teleport (What subconscious has time for running, no matter how hurried?).  Teleported into an endless hallway with stained red rugs, foreboding some sequence from The Shining (God, Please not the twins…Between two (three?) evils, I choose deranged Jack Nicholson.) But instead of all the gore, I found myself before you, in your quotidian calmness as though this is just what we always do – I see a rat and appear before you breathless. What is it now? -you ask and I detect your characteristic monotone but also a combination of pity and sarcasm peppered with feigned lack of interest.(Welcome, change!) And again and again I ask myself whether we would still be friends if you were less calm, less tolerant? Dreams don’t wait for chatty women to finish their thoughts….You disappeared into my hotel room and next thing I remember – your girls are playing with the rat, your wife increasingly unsure about the new pet… The rescue is complete.  A friend is made. My room is set for work. God knows, a lot of work is left. But drunken happiness is gone? Perhaps the rat has taken it?

iPhone, youPhone.

Your voice seeps into my ear through the almost forgotten medium of a phone conversation 

The idea that you and I are having a conversation is a novelty in itself. The juvenile melody of this prose /poem is nothing but an attempt to hold on to youth and the right to talk, think about you like a school girl.

You speak, my silence makes you stutter, I know I should say something to ease you into comfort. After all you are the one who (finally!) called to talk. So I keep breathing and listening to the notes of insecurity in your voice. 

Your voice, stuttering and all,  is so much bigger than you are in person. It seeps into my ear and fills me up whole. For a moment I am nothing but your voice. 

You vibrate inside my ear drum, stream along my blood vessels, and I can barely concentrate on the actual words. You are calling to ask for my help. No, not the help I wish you would ask for. 

You say that you don’t want to take my time. As I let your voice seep into my being, I am lulled by its omnipresence and I want to tell you that this is all I can give you. Time. But that would be inappropriate. So I say that I am, in fact, exceedingly busy. And then I wonder if my voice sounded cute. 

pre-birthday lyricism 

As another year creeps in to take over….

My mind, thoughts, plans (with warnings of setbacks

Brought on by age, and even more so by ageism)

All turn to the old adage –

We regret the things we haven’t done far more than the things we did 

Do.

Two more years to a number frightening in the sheer weight of its phonetics 

I never thought I could get old(er).

Each passing year is calling for a narrower/longer mirror 

I deceive myself that choices made earlier are forgiven

I tell myself that it was ok to love more than you.

—-

Comparative studies make me despise myself 

(If it is ok for her to love-live with a man who loves other men and probably loves her less, but respects her more and is a great father to their three kids; my heart is getting smaller with each year that it beats. Colder too.) 

But they also make me kinder in a way similar to the yet new mirror and it’s phantasmagoric effects on my waistline 
I draw juxtapositions, I try not to picture other people in compromising positions 

Only sometimes I do.

The girl that cries over birds and saves more than one apartment can fit – despises people. “Only people can hurt/cage/starve/abandon birds.”

She stopped eating chicken. But continues judging.

What after all is kindness? 

Is defending a turkey, superior in the end, to the right of other people to not be judged about their weight. After all people aren’t turkeys and their weight doesn’t determine their worth, their fate…

She would say this juxtaposition is flawed because I am looking at it from the viewpoint of a human. 

Another year. Another tale.

You are a man. And I am not one. I dream of your hand and mine as one. 

This poem is one epic fail. But I will most likely always remain your tail. Even if I occasionally swerve to follow another.

Be patient. Somebody told me that crushes are a disease. Fever subsides and you wonder what did you see before that now resembles dust 

Who was it that wrote about love (who didn’t ?) -while emotions burn it’s a hypnotic fire of orange and red. But it all burns down to ashes…

Who wants to look at those?

Or think about them?