Demon Lover

for Susan

There are places where he doesn't go
because it obscures the glow of her face.

He avoids certain colors of light
because it mistreats the hue of her eyes.

In the darkness he can sit for hours
to gaze into the warm light of her soul.

In the dawn's light he finds close comfort
and holds her alabaster skin in his vision;

for moment upon moment through time
and lets her soul seep into his skin.

Pomegranates

Pomegranates

I ask myself
why I've not

eaten pomegranates
given to me

and I realize
because when I smell

their sweet and tart
I will betray myself.

(2006)

Narrow Daylight

The narrow sense of daylight
can't explain the way i'm feeling.
And the turmoil that comes to me
when Southern Cross is high

which calls for me to take up on
efforts better left to a Seraphim.
But this is where I am and
the stars are my instructions.

They want me to turn Demons
with this melancholy visage and
they expect me to change scripture
with this downtrodden, drone voice.

Grappa

There are moments in experience
when all that you have sensed,
all that you have felt and endured
comes to the feeling of grape seeds
pressed and raped against the liquor
of your drying and precious life.

There are moments in lasting breaths
of other angels you haven't met;
they scribble unknowns on the walls.
They have unknown seeds in their gums
and cry scraping notes god has not heard.
They wait for us to lead them to rest.

There are moments in between
when everything seems to make sense;
when all the fear and all the anger
can be described in a single scribble
written on frail age old papyrus; then
I decide, they can learn it on their own.

i have no life

i have no life
it's what i tell people
knowing the life i have

is in a box
within another box
somewhere in another place

collected as images
tidbits of words
expressions in lyric

the minds has got to wonder
what the eyes are going to see
when the hands open those boxes

unpacking that life
re-reading that history
will the stories have changed

will pleasantries be stripped
the gloss of photos
replaced by expressions of regret

i have no life
like the life i've lived
the life i live remembers no past

the whispers in my head
are all my own
re-renderings passages gone

(july 2003)

Suicide Tears

In the thin air between
the sadness and confusion,
a silver cloud with a grey lining
follows his steps like an obedient pet.

He casts no shadow beneath his pains.
He recognizes no gems among the thorn laden path.

In the hoarse breath between the fear and anger,
an orange mandala with a white core
collages itself to the vestiges of wings.
He feels not the heat that can bring comfort;

He senses no gentleness of a kind god;
He walks a path of paradox with each step.

In the shudders that rack his frail frame,
his tears commit suicide in each of their falls.
Leaving a trail of rubies, sapphires and emeralds
in his lonely slushy footfalls in the soft peat.

the taboo of our egos

he looks like his mother
though less solid
and more like a statuette,

but he is fluid
on the inside not
really reliable for

our needs, not stone.
even wood can furnish,
even rotten wood holds

at least for the grain,
this won't do at all,
this idea of heart shall

fail.
we are a forest
of scalloped leaves

meaning "what was left" –
the wanderings of the mind
the treasures of the heart.

the taboo of our egos
can't possibly bear sunlight
damn them...

wrap them

in our burlap comfort.
hold them until their
turbulent breath

is quiet as least as ours...

Nothing happens by accident

Early this morning, before sunrise I woke up in a bit of a panicked state. I was thinking I was supposed to be leaving for Switzerland in a day or so and there was so much that was unprepared. Then I realized it had been a dream, a very realistic dream at that. I had been dreaming that I was moving back to Switzerland for school or something and that there was a lot to do yet.

I was in a cold sweat. I breathed deeply then fell back asleep within a couple of minutes.

As it often happens, when I'm having lucid dreams they come in series. When I was asleep I went back into the same dream. The dream continued and I had departed and was now in Vevey, the town I used to live in. It was full of trepidation as I realized I hadn't arranged for an apartment and my papers weren't in order. The experience continued and I guess things worked themselves out. I was walking along the lake again but found that the water level was much higher than normal. The paved path that I used to walk on was flooded and I was walking on grass instead. The giant sycamores were partially flooded. My old apartment was still there. Nothing else had changed except for the water level.

It was a nice reminescence. When I woke up again, the first feelings were that I really was going to Switzerland.

Later today, I was looking at a design for a friend and giving feedback. Surprisingly or not, one of the possible solutions for the piece was to use deconstructed Swiss style typography.

Nothing happens by accident, we just have to understand what the purpose of events, situations and people are for...

Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep

watercolor and graphite on paper, 5"x7". 2006. view large


I Am in Need of Music

I am in need of music that would flow
Over my fretful, feeling fingertips,
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
A song to fall like water on my head,
And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!

There is a magic made by melody:
A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep
To the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
And floats forever in a moon-green pool,
Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.

Elizabeth Bishop

Rain Before Thanksgiving

Tonight I went out for a walk and just as I sat back down at my desk I was greeted by the sound of rainfall hitting the tile roof outside my window.

It is the most agreeable sound I've heard all week...

Abstract Autumn

I edited the previous blog entry into verse to go with this morning's photo:



Abstract Autumn

Monday morning arrives
in the company of last night's
clouds and winds.

It feels more like autumn.
Outside, the orange and ochre leaves
of unknown trees sway in the gusts
like little birds flying against a gale.

Spots of blue among
broken clouds in previous days
have been replaced by violet patches
juxtaposed against silvery white;
a ceiling of cotton candy.

Outside my window there are
gossamer remains of an
abandoned spider web.
Its owner long gone – a meal for a bird
or having found a safer home
has left its artwork in tatters,
silk becoming fodder
for an organic mobile;
part natural and part urban.

Calder would be proud
of the accomplishment.

Pollock would envy the wispy
flagellation of threads in air,
wishing he could have flung
paint half as well.

And Rothko,
he would be envious of the subtle,
beautiful, and melancholy
palette of this Autumn daybreak.

(November 13, 2006)

Windy Monday

Monday morning arrives in the company of last night's clouds and winds. It is feeling more like autumn. Outside, the orange and ochre leaves of unknown trees sway in the gusts like little birds flying against a gale. The spots of blue among the broken clouds in previous days have now been replaced by violet patches juxtaposed against silvery white like a ceiling of cotton candy. Outside my window there are the gossamer remains of an abandonned spider web. Its owner long gone, a meal for a bird or having found a new safer spot has left its artwork in tatters, materials becoming fodder for an organic mobile that is part natural and part urban. Even Calder would be proud for such an accomplishment. Even Pollock would envy the wispy movements of silk in the air, wishing he could have flung paint as such. And Rothko, he would be envious of the subtle beautiful but melancholy palette of this Autumn daybreak.

Sunday evening

It is mid evening. The day found me musing through photos and looking out the window. There were moments when I thought I might go outside but did not.

Afternoon into evening proceeded quietly. Now it is dark and the cold outside is trying to seep in through the double panes of glass. It is peaceful now yet I am restless. Still restless...

November Sunday

Today's morning came through the blinds lazily, distracted by the large fluffy grey clouds hanging from the earth's ceiling trying to decide if they would weep and grace us with heaven's tears. I rose to make tea in the cold autumn morning feeling the chill of the wooden floor for the first time in the season. This season's signs come to with incredible acuity this year. I am not sure why. Perhaps there is this morose feeling that it could be my last, as any season or moment could be anyone's last. In this frame of mind I try to pay attention. It is hard to know if I am successful. For without a doubt as I pay more attention to some things, others will be missed. That is okay though, I am merely reminded that I am just flesh and bones, some grey matter and mostly water...

Only those who died young

watercolor and graphite on paper. 5" x 7". 2006.

excerpt from Duino Elegies: The Tenth Elegy
By Rainier Maria Rilke

"Only those who died young, in their first state of
timeless serenity, while they are being weaned,
follow her lovingly. She waits for girls
and befriends them. Gently she shows them
what she is wearing. Pearls of grief
and the fine-spun veils of patience.-
With youths she walks in silence."

saturday november morning

this morning came with the soft thud-thud and pop-pop of hesitant raindrops on the roof. they were soft but enough to awaken me, more so than the grey damp light sneaking through my shutters. still hazy and lazy, i flipped the covers away and got up and dressed to go make a pot of morning tea. while the water was heating, i listened to a voice mail from a dear old friend whom i've not spoken to in a couple of months. he had a disturbing week. he has never called me because of any sort of distress or frustration in the 16 years i've known him. i've not called back yet because i'm not ready to be a support yet – not just yet. once this tea has kicked in, i shall be ready. i shall be ready to set aside the quiet turmoil of my frail universe to be a friend...

all and nothing

inside, outside,
real, imagined;
are they the same?

it is here, today.
it is here
as most other days.

i want to comment
but it feels
that the words

have already
been said,
or have they?

it is as if
the things i imagine
become real.

they feel real.
real enough
through someone

else’s context.
but it is me who is here
so how could it be another's?

all i have to work
with are those
luscious, lovely piercing

eyes asking
for nothing.
how could it be

that such
open eyes could
ask any soul

for all
and
nothing?

Spin

He endures the phalanx of tests,
the sort of prodding he has been
avoiding all his life.

He finds no discomfort
in dying for another
yet the chore of cleaning
up his own corpse
he finds so completely distasteful.

He finds it ironic and humorous,
lost of all its patina of greenish foam,
the classical age long gone.

He stares into the mirror
and looks at the sleeping pills.
such powerful little pistils they are,
the gift or humankind's work.

With a violent crack
the mirror shatters and falls
into isosceles triangles in the sink.

Even without his consent
the balance of this universe
holds him in his spin.

(November 5, 2006)

Dhalias

They expect a certain kind of ending
who am I to disappoint? A child of Confucious;

"Make sure to buy the paper from the right vendor;
Make sure the incense is not broken.

Don't bother with the box, linen will do.
Don't use dahlias, he will come back for those."

They expect a certain kind of ending;
branded in life, the scars will hold, I'm sure.

(November 5, 2006)

Bach

Last night Bach held his hand to me through
the hum and vibrations of a weeping cello.

He'd been in Leipzig too long
he was sad, angry and tired.

I had nothing to offer except the pathetic look
on my face. He turned from me, shaking his head.

He bent over and sat quietly for hours.
He then played something in the air;

I was too ignorant to see his images.
when I came back years and years later

I found the sound of lament
expressed in something beyond heaven's melodies.

(2006)