Saturday, April 02, 2005


golden clouds sketch arabesques in the purple sky
by weeping waters I sit darkening
and throw letters and poems and pictures
into the river to drown the moon
no night's without end (I tell myself --
it's a sorry consolation)
and the skies will soon burn with my favourite tint of aquamarine
and the whitehaired clouds will dribble in anticipation
of something
of something
there will be time to figure out what,
till then

. . .

(three stops that compass
an unspeakable eternity)


I reach out and pick from the river
a longsilent photograph
and the moon bobs up groggily, wagging its sickle finger --
"I knew it. I knew it all along," it says
-- but I'm not looking at it
because I'm looking at you
surrounded crowded yet alone
the reddest drop of blood
on lips of bleachbright bone.


Ashish Gorde said...

I love the colours and the vivid imagery in this poem. The atmosphere, too, is beautifully sketched and one can easily sense the pathos and even touch it, so to speak. Brilliant.

Jinx said...