Friday, May 31, 2013

One Art by Elisabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

I really can't explain why I like this poem so much, ( I like almost anything by Elisabeth Bishop) , I am aware of being simply enchanted by the both drunk and sober rhythm and rhymes. In stanzas and lines that seem to have sprung with a force of their own powerful like an undefeated dance.

Thursday, May 30, 2013


that always sings while the day fades.
Both here and far way.
Receding at a point, like waves.
While the evening expands
and the strand
surrenders to the low tide.
Like memory’s fingers
that linger.
Listen, silence.
Listen, it has started again.
A lapse is a friend.
Sky’s reservoir.
Far, never too far.

Thursday, May 23, 2013


A woodpecker
pecking at my shutter,
a hole in the matter.
While the swan
flies away with the girl,
sky’s sweeping swirl.
“Quick, quick, follow them”,
between a wave and another of the sea,
just a flap between darkness and me.
“With a hollow rumble of wings”,
a conscience-stinging dart
swallowing the heart.
“Fly away”, you say, now my turn:
can you gaze up at the sky
while your bones burn?

Tuesday, May 21, 2013


It’s middle May and they
are on time, along the railway line
and in the fields, earth’s skin
letting out its drops of blood,
waving and wavering,
a light, grateful swarming load.
Their petals, blood-lit, flimsy souls,
seem to have alighted by chance,
a god scattering the crimson dots
of his countenance in advance.
They are drunk with the veins of the sun,
fingered by any infinitesimal breath,
clustering in the heat of the railroad tracks,
crowding the shiny sides of the iron lines,
they chatter and applaud, just slightly torn
when our wheels flash and swarm.
They do not last much but, unlike blood,
they do not dry and fade like memory’s trade
but they shuffle off, are shaken away
by the windy breath of one more day.
And these words, so easily reddening
can’t but imitate their enthusiasm
conscious to be, like anything,
just bubbles of a wave in a chasm.

Wednesday, May 15, 2013

Kate Atkinson

I have read almost all her novels, the right adjective for this latest one is sparkling. Each sentence, each word sparkles, falls instantly perfectly into place. The title: Life After Life.
Has a narration, each word of it, a taste? Beyond metaphor, it has.

Saturday, May 11, 2013


I could highlight
ice-cream in late afternoon
sliding into a luminous
evening on the waterfront.
On Sundays. Eyeing people
strolling, chatter unrolling,
all that streaming over there.
Longing for staying
in the trust of a stare.
In the ever present
days gone by, the sun shining,
unreached and unreserved.
Licking, from mouth to mind,
settling each lick in the heart.
Sensing we could lick
all the way to the bone,
like through a flowers’ persistence
from stone to stone.
Like my licking master,
my dog under the table
now licking my bare feet
making me feel fully
earth to earth on my seat,
on the waves of this stage, still
and faring forward in spring heat.

Thursday, May 9, 2013


Words come, like this
and you simply enjoy their taste even if
you are not really sure of what they mean.
And do not find them in the dictionary.
Beloved ghosts, beloved ribbons.
They give you an image, almost
for the hell of it, almost
shrugging their shoulders,
through the enduring
babbling bubbles of syllables.
Then the image can just
fly away, they don’t mind.
In the wind, in the wind-
they laugh and sigh.
Words you have repeated
for ages and in between stages,
first as a child, when they settled
in the interstices of days and skies,
and seasons. They still ring,
become at one with the texture
of your own smile in things.
Mantras in life’s stanzas,
with no consistence
and no consequence,
shiny maybe just for this.
They have always made you
feel both foolish and divine,
brandishing the illusion,
the beribboned flashing of life.

Sunday, May 5, 2013


You can shout and be shovelled away
in this swarming.
You sense you can shout whatever you like
in these snakes and ladders shot through the sky.
You see sand in a cloud while you are walking
the sunlit pavement rising towards the seafront,
the stage full of a bright rage launching
lace after lace into the open.
The swarming stare of the air where tracks fall apart
like the infinitely torn ventricles of a heart.
Smithereens of a god’s cheekbones who enjoys
being endlessly blown up in rumbling ribbons.
It’s an unframed huge breath on your face
that makes you sooner or later lower your gaze
and you think of all that’s lost at once and swarms
and there must be, must be something of yours here,
in this lashing of selves, forgotten, torn, or just being born,
in this rushing and crashing of nothing into nothing,
this throaty, hollering announcement of air into air,
or stares expanding and exploding into stares, lizards
stopped by in an aplomb of sky, gazing motionless
for a second - time stopping, time never ending-
and in the next just dashing, flashing away.
A tail scuttering or, so much for that,
a tale plunging beyond the edge of an odyssey,
or a heart in the wake of a perpetual lightning,
or hope in eternity of sun breathing through sail.

Wednesday, May 1, 2013


The stench is unmistakable,
a  shape on the black strand
half-buried in wet sand,
my dog  runs and rubs her back on it
paws in bliss cycling the sky,
I run too and shout “Away”
and she goes, reluctantly.
The ancestral need in an instant
of covering one’s smell
with a rotten other, wanting on instinct
to merge in the rot, the living with the dead.
The basic wish of plunging into what  
is gone and gnawed by the currents,
getting the scent, the tang
and the whisper of the whirlpool.
A spring sun shone on the beach
this morning, with a haze
like a choir slightly ablaze.
The sea roar stared from its maze.
Clouds cruising, glorious day
for a first swim.
The carcass was there, behind me.
I didn’t look at what it looked like.