Category: English poetry

are the tears in my eyes the result of yawning
after a sleepless night, or of reading verses
to distract myself from the missing pillow
next to mine?

if by writing i try to understand
what has happened in my life,
then each stanza touches a true story,
if only by transference. the thing is,
it is my truth. in the end, whatever happens
in our lives happens in relation to others,
and for whatever reason, we will never
know the other side, even if we wanted
to know. but how to tell a real story
and not hurt a real person
again?

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love

William Shakespeare, True Love

if i were asked what love is, i would say,
ask the blind for the colour of their eyes,
or the deaf for the timbre of their voice,
as they may have more to say than i do.
after all, two decades of marriage hardly
make me an expert, especially right before
divorce.

fun and games, writing, is it not?
sometimes we hit, miss more often,
and usually somewhere in between.
all we can do is keep trying, because,
truth be told, no one wants to be seen
as stagnant water. but the problem is
that even a river can rot if saturated
with phosphorus.

I was able to sway her not with gold, nor with Indian conches,
but with the blandishment of smooth, alluring poetry.

Sextus Propertius, Cynthia Ode

do you remember the words i wrote
for you, the lines that over time began
to escape your attention, the metaphors
that you looked at with a growing sense
of bewilderment? so if you would rather
have indian conches, why would you let
yourself be swayed by my stanzas?
and at what point did an autographed
book of poetry lose to a blank signed
chequebook?

is the signature enough
to negate half of my life
and which half? the one
whose memory has long
since faded, or the one
that i would prefer not
to remember in the first
place? perhaps neither.
time dusted with words
of wisdom makes fine
lacquerware.

the year has passed. just a glance
and my reflection in a roadside puddle
dries up.

the year has passed. just a sigh
and my voice slowly fades into the cry
of the gulls.

the year has passed. just a signature
and it is as if half of my life has never
happened.

The caged bird owes no allegiance;
The wind-tossed flower does not cling the tree.

Bai Juyi, Losing a Slave-Girl

i once met wild geese
from the garden
of the floating cup.

we watched silently
as the gardener turned
the small pavilions
into cages and filled
the winding streams
with red and yellow.

the masons added
a new layer of figures
made of terracotta
to the wall around,
and hunters cast
their nets to curb
the birds’ freedom.

i once met wild geese
waiting by the wall
with no moon gate.

when i pass a couple on the street,
sometimes i glance at them to spot
that glimmer of male resentment
on his face. but really, what i see
in his narrowed eyes looking back
is insecurity. and then i wonder
what would happen if i were
a woman.