Category: poetry

she once said that all she dreamed about
was being a mother and not necessarily
a wife. it is funny because all i dreamed
about was being a husband to a mother
that i never had. so she married a man
in boys’ shorts, and i married a woman
with a heart in a nun’s habit with an ace.

two decades later, i am the man i was
meant to be, but it turned out she could
not stand me any more. two decades
later, we discovered she was a rare
gem, but it turned out that i preferred
to hold a simple seashell in my hand
than to admire a rainbow from afar.

one day, i may hold one’s hand
without fear. for now, let me walk
with my hands in my pockets
holding a handkerchief.

one day, i may look into one’s eyes
without suspicion. for now, let me watch
my footsteps amidst the cries of seagulls
fighting for a slice of burger.

one day, i may fall in love with one again
without thinking. for now, let me dwell
on sleepless nights spent trying to guess
the meaning of which side she sleeps on.

one day, i may forget what it is now.

they do not need us any more, women.
they just keep us around as we are handy
sometimes. but though it is our own fault,
we still act like a tyrannosaur, savouring
its juicy bone, unaware that this is the last
meal. and brother, it does not matter what
ideology you attach to this, as in the end,
we all lose, because we ask for trouble
instead of forgiveness.

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.