Scents of linden trees illuminated by an old oil lamp. The night is me. I am the night where love delights dwell. Shed you skin and come with me where minutes melt like chocolate on the tongue of a child. You, sweetness from beyond the body, what can one say about you?
I am grateful to Mushtaq Bala – the Editor-In-Chief of KASHMIR PEN – for inviting me to publish my work in his newspaper.
Purple roots cover all trails that go to the foothills. Veins that the earth pushed to the surface. I smell lavender. Your words grow in the breeze like a dough under the whispers of the moon. For three thousand years, sung by the poets of this land, the naked shoulder of the mountain reigned in stillness. The sky made itself invisible into a wooden box where my grandmother kept her rings: memories of loves that now fit in a small chamber. The sea and the afternoon’s breaths eclipse the taste of your colors. The blue that slipped between the same branches of the old poplar tree stares me in the eyes. Clouds ossify the fight of the earth against the earth. Between my palms the body of a thin yellow candle. I remember walking on a street where children were hungry and had no shoes. I took my shoes off and wiped my tears with the back of palms. Under my eyes the skin became red and rough. I wrote I love you on your left cheek. I threw all the silver coins I had onto the dust of the street. They were meant for the dead. Let them help the living. I remember your hand caressing the silk of my dress. I purge all memories except one that belongs to the future. You and I chanting to the incarnation of love under a tree on the island where I was born. The island where it is always spring and the earth that does not fight against the earth. Did I tell you I was born on an island?
Fight was published together with If Only … Autumn in the 19, 2020 November edition of KASHMIR PEN.
“But I never thought I would be reviewing a book of poetry, much less buying one for my own enjoyment. How would this come to pass, you may ask … or, you may not … but I will tell you anyway.” Please read Darren’s reviewhereand follow his site.
Now my new poem [prose poem]: Spring
White. We drank two lemonades sweetened with honey at the old terrace by the church. My body arched like a branch under the heaviness of cherry fruit. I read from a book by Odysseas Elytis. You smiled and listened. The skies sighed. The bells tolled twice. Flowers silhouetted against my blood. Wishes blossomed in your sweat. I anointed your kiss.
Later, in the autumn, you wrote. “I am in love with you. I do not understand how it happened.” Neither do I. I told you: that which is against our will is unjust. I have no other answer. Yet.
In a flash my mind shows me a thousand streets tormented by loneliness. These streets – once the grand wine-presses of human bodies and cars – are now haunted by sickness and eaten by desolation.
It’s spring. The ocean’s water is warm like a country bread. I can taste it. The crisp crust, the sweetness of grains and earth melt on my tongue.
I miss you and the chestnut tree from that pastel afternoon when we first kissed.
Why did I love you? Of course, you were handsome, but it wasn’t that. I loved you because you could not have been conquered by the tricks with which a woman conquers most men. Why would I even want a man that any women with lipstick and stilettos can have?
I am digressing, am I not?
It’s spring. The water is red. Under the light of its pearls, flowers open like fresh young lips.
I avert my mind from the memory of your arms which tries to drag me inside an abyss of naked love; a love blessed with the force of the mistral and the sensuality of linked fingers under the moonlight.
The earth and the waters are one.
Yet the pain is heavy and filled with fluids like the chest cavity of a dead animal hanging up-side down.
I can see your boat. It’s beautiful.
The world is sick.
If I say I love you will you tell me what I can do to heal it?
Please read my Spillwords Author of the Year (2019) interview here
My thanks again to Kevin Morris – a wonderful poet – for interviewing me. Please read Kevin’s interview with me here.
Heaven and earth change places.
The core of the earth shines. Rays pierce waters, beamed from below, springing from the phosphorescent floor.
Dark corridors open in the walls.
I put my hand in the water.
My hand metamorphosizes into bright silver.
Noise. A nymph?! Oh, that pristine beauty which always dethrones Aphrodite’s pagan looks.
I don’t want to leave. This is the only place I’ve known where any remembrance of human neurosis dissipates like morning fog.
“Clara we can’t stay here. We need to leave.”
“Miguel, I am not leaving. You said everything for me.”
“Clara, they don’t sell the damn grotto. If they did, I’d buy it for you. We need to leave.”
“I am not leaving.”
The light from the water floats inside his eyes.
Is he angry with me?
The ankle of an iceberg cries. Its tears fell on my body. They crust on my skin like cold wax on a rack of votive candles. Seconds hurt like lonely Saturdays. I lie in bed. Roses scent the air. My dreams burn. Ashes of our nights of love cover the sun. My eyes dilate under the gravity of time. I taste figs and wild forest. The room moves on another longitude. Is it morning? Is it Saturday? Where are you?