Saturday, April 27, 2013

Eleven (for my Father)

Eleven ( for my father)

Years later, to be precise, eleven,
on the day that butchered your heart into splinters,
the gray steel of water reflects the heaven,
and your features come through in a blurry filter.

I don't imagine that you ever grew neutral,
relentless but hurt you tear through chaos,
shoving off the call of the reason - brutal,
mumbling into my dream some unknown prayers.

Eleven years later and there is no despair,
as if pain had been numbed by a shot of morphine.
On a foreign street your soul stripped bare,
and went home like the others -- a deserted orphan.

The prayers you mumbled were ancient, somber.
Each syllable stole your allotted breath.
In order to wake from life's slumber,
you have to become one with death.

Forty days they wondered through desert's amnesia.
The oasis was empty like a dried-out womb.
Forty years or so in search of unnamed treasure
in a foreign city that resembles a tomb.

But it all comes down to an instant splintered,
to an instant bare, red and hot.
On your homeland's street, in nonexistent winter
I will kneel and gather into one whole -- your heart.

Saturday, January 12, 2013

New Year In New York

New Year in New York

Chinaman plays his flute on the subway
and the New Year starts.
With a melody -- neutral, like a heart
that finds no solace in hope,
prefers things "as they are".
The sound of the flute takes you far

to the yellow laws of Confucius,
his yellow tales.
To the narrow-eyed gaze that ignores the general,
magnifies details:
poison-green seaweed,
silver-blue mother of pearl,
a golden, silk thread on the wrist of a girl.

Chinaman plays his flute in the city of steel.
You slither along after the sound like an eel.
Only to find -- Confucius has vanished.
You are back in the city of stone,
where the heart is drained of the liquid love,
thoughts condense to a bone --
discolored, bland, spelling labor and work.
This city stands one-legged
like a frozen stork.