Light-years (Hester Knibbe)

It’s a beautiful world, you said,
with these trees, marshes, deserts,
grasses, rivers and seas

and so on. And the moon is really something
in its circuits
of relative radiance. Include

the wingèd M, voluptuous
Venus, hotheaded Mars, that lucky devil
J and cranky Saturn, of course, plus

U and N and the wanderer P, in short
the whole solar family, complete with its
Milky Way, and count up all the other

systems with dots and spots and in
that endless emptiness what you’ve got
is a commotion of you-know-what. It’s a beautiful

universe, you said, just take a good look
through the desert’s dark glasses
for instance or on your back

in seas of grass, take a good look
at the deluge of that Rorschach—we’re standing out there
somewhere, together.

Translated by Jacquelyn Pope

Source: http://is.gd/dR2li

Dandelions (Peter Campion)

After the cling of roots and then the “pock”
when they gave way
                                     the recoil up the hand
               was a small shock
of emptiness beginning to expand.

Milk frothing from the stems. Leaves inky green
and spiked.
                      Like blissed-out childhood play
              turned mean
they snarled in tangled curls on our driveway.

It happens still. That desolating falling
shudder inside
                            and then our neighborhood
                seems only sprawling
loops...like the patterns eaten on driftwood:

even the home where I grew up (its smell
of lingering
                      wood-smoke and bacon grease)
             seems just a shell
of lathe and paper. But this strange release

follows: this tinge like silver and I feel
the pull of dirt
                            again, sense mist uncurling
               to reveal
no architecture hidden behind the world

except the stories that we make unfolding:
as if our sole real power
                                                    were the power
             of children holding
this flower that is a weed that is a flower.

Source: http://is.gd/dR2cT

Bienvenue

La nuit, le matin
On recommence
Le même destin
Décollant
La même piste d’atterrissage
En espérant
Un bon vol
Une fois
Il n’y aura pas
Ni pluie ni brouillard
Seulement le ciel
Seulement le ciel
Un soleil aimable
Tout en disant
Bienvenue.

(Penned July 6, 2010)

Sunrise

Mornings such

Sparkling

A little brazen

Little off the edge

Almost

Downhill

Into the ravine

Quickly evaporating

(Penned July 1, 2010)

Parosan

I have blogged about Parosan before. She has always wanted me to.

It’s been on my mind to write about her. It sent her flying into a chortling spasm of rapture to know that I've finally blogged about her again.

Parosan once sat next to me. Everyday of our lives then, I got to hear all her rantings. What I did not, she would tell me over our long strolls comet-spotting by the sea sky. She was a terribly impulsive child, always a little unsure of herself, yet randomly outspoken in a way that did me proud. She had a certain wild spunk about her which surfaced to this world, most sharply every now and then. She was bubbling with questions aiming them at me, in rapid succession,  like one heat seeking missile after another; questions  about everything you can ever imagine like potion boiling in a cauldron, precariously darting itself out. She was like an atom, a quark, in constant motion, zipping away, doing a million different things with her life, all at the same time; at times stumbling, at times sailing through high mast, every bit as curious and eager to zealously consume life like an infant running amuck in a room full of furniture.

We lived our lives at the same mad pace, a little differently. I never spoke as much about myself as much perhaps as she did. Yet somewhere in between the baroque of her life, she sensed things in a shockingly remarkable manner. I never really had the advantage of a poker face. From some faraway corner, something as little as the slightest twinge in my voice, she knew something was gently swaying me at sea. I never really needed to tell her things. Her ‘care-a-hang’ take on things was swift and sharp, like a pin prick. It was always a perspective, radically different from my line of thought, refreshing and hilarious.

Today Parosan is older, a measurably mellowed quark making her transit through a denser environment. She is fast approaching fork roads I have survived before. I am a little afraid for her. I advise her caution. Her questions are still gurgling, as wild as rapid.

I only hope it isn’t time soon that I run out of answers. 

Twelve (Stan Rice)

By the time you are twelve your affections are fixed.
Then come the decades that roll your heart like a cheese
In the sea. Yes, it is surreal.
Then you are twelve again, and old.
And you find the waxed red ball of your heart on the shore.
And you are not surprised by anything now except
That you should love at the end what you loved
At the beginning.

Source: http://www.stanrice.com/poetry-radiancepigs.html#excerpt 

Off the easel

For either

Lack of definition

Or want of it

Speculation rampant

Foams and looms

Like the sky 

Drizzling watercolours

Puddles translucent
In endless flux

Like shifting seas

Of tinted algae

On parchment seeping

Holding little

Later than sooner

But sometime

For certain

This riot of hues

Like the turmoil

Of ignorance

Eats away

Into itself. 

(Penned June 15, 2010)

Stationery (Agha Shahid Ali)

The moon did not become the sun.
It just fell on the desert
in great sheets, reams
of silver handmade by you.
The night is your cottage industry now,
the day is your brisk emporium.
The world is full of paper.
Write to me.

Source: Time Out Mumbai ISSUE 20 Friday, May 28, 2010
Thank you @willgetback

Reading the poems of an absent friend (Ou Yang Hsiu)

Translated by Kenneth Rexroth

Tsu Mei is early dead. Chang Yu

Now is somewhere in the South.

And I, unhappy, am like

A four horse chariot which

Has lost the horses on right

And left. Their memory, like

A strong enemy, attacks

And overthrows me. The feeble

Swarm of my own thoughts struggles

In vain against the shock. All

Men respect hard work, but in

Leisure and repose they find

Happiness and peace. And me,

What is the matter with me?

Nothing, except that I cannot

Bear the loss of friends. It has

Been a long time since I have

Written a poem. My ideas

Are like sticky pudding. When

Good land is not cultivated

Regularly the grass vanishes

And is replaced by weeds, hard

To hoe. When you do not use

A well every day the pure

Water does not replace itself.

By chance, I opened a book

Of Mei's and I forgot

Everything else while the sun

Sank below the eaves. The joys

Of poetry, for those who

Appreciate them, increase with

Time and familiarity,

Their richness never ends in

Satiety. I am sorry

For the men of these times. They

Talk of nothing interesting

And have no ambition and

Die without ever being

Aware of the music of verse.

But I am lucky enough

To appreciate these pleasures,

The more I savour, the deeper

I understand, the more I want.

In the leisure which my duties

Leave me, I stay at home, so

I can enjoy them undisturbed.

And I wonder that my feeble

Means have enabled me to

Enjoy these poems so much, that here

I have run off, like a horse

Whose rider has lost the bit.

About the poet http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ouyang_Xiu

Observation

So many

Spread themselves so wide

Across these worlds

Mustard seeds

Scattered on white marble

Really going nowhere

Unless you tilt the plane

Like buttered bread

From Oliver Twist

As deep

As a mosquito on water

(Penned June 3, 2010)