i see the sea in her eyes

like a bursting dawn she smiles at me
and I see the sea in her eyes, the serene sea
of childhood where she could have grown.
in her lashes flicker the days of playing
with the waves – rolling, riding, frothing
with the foams.  but why should a smile so sweet
so innocent be snatched by sea –
monsters? so serene, so tender, the sea –
why in this misty morning, when everything  is as quiet as a moss?
the grains of sand under my feet grieve,
but why they suck her blood so quick?
and why like a stain
her leaving leaves testimonies – shells sprinkled
with blood, crushed corals, blank bullets,
frayed fish nets.
‘why you my child?’ weeps her mother
as she with a stick slashes the combat boot prints
sneering at her in the sand.



sweetness of silence

It’s dusk and it’s not raining but I want to stay with you under your umbrella. I want to gaze at its broken ribs; I want to hear the creaking of its joints. And I want to look at your eyes: something stings in the rust resting in your lashes. I hear waves roaring, I sense the songs of the sons and daughters of the sea.

Why should the children of fire seek the shed of an umbrella tree? Are they afraid of the smoldering breath of God? Lilies lie on the lapof the valley where volleys of mortars have never tasted the sweetness of silence.

I long for the lilies, for their lies: there’s not truth in flowers; not even in the soil their roots turn to dust. Open me, release my breath; let the wind recharge me with the scent of the lilies. Engulf my sorrow with the serenity of its petals

13feb2007/ 2:45pm

a sudden thud hit my groin

A sudden thud hit my groin –
a nameless force so strong
that I lost the light.
And I lay there on the street,
baring my breast to the beast
roaming around in my dreams.
Why can’t I slay her? Why,
with all the powers of silence
and sighs, can’t I slay her?
The moment I think of defeating her,
she lurks with the fangs
that glitter under the wounded moon.

No one needs death. Dying
is just a trickery of sorrow,
pretending to maim, to numb the senses.
But even in death, metaphors hover
and haunt the poet. Death,
therefore, never settles anything;
it only sharpens whatever dreams have blurred.
Symbols strike their targets so shortly
that they fade the moment they assume

Cotton candies taste like wine.
Try them with your eyes closed
and feel the clouds swirl in your throat.
Extend your hands sideways
and you’ll know how birds learn to fly.
Flap your hands and your face will bathe in fog –
so pure, so blue, bleeding like a bloodless corpse.

Imagination is not fond of mimicry;
it conjures only what is real but yet unrevealed.

‘Why should your body lie on this forlorn street my child?’
God asked me. And I felt that my skin is of earth and on it
crisscross spiky beliefs and ideologies of self-righteousness
of bigotry, of maiming, of killing.

Survive! you who fit this wretched world the most;
but bear the brunt of the scourge of impotency.
Emmanuel, your god is in you. Summon the demon,
let it prostrate before you, but bear in mind the bareness
and barrenness of this truth: prostate gland
can never desecrate what is sacred.

Scared of scars and scarcity,
the economists hurl holy rocks
against the howling wilderness of hunger.
Why can’t they turn these stones into bread?
Why can’t they turn these wastes into waving
waistlines of wisemen who visited Jesus in the manger?

I can no longer dream of a white christmas,
my measled toe is burning with love
of Africa. Mandela, how many prisons
does a man need to gain the world market of ideas
and orgasms? Why can’t we eject our souls like a cd?

Spring sprouts like tubers, but plumbing needs tubes
and plastic straw through which the public trust
will be sucked and pubic hairs
will be hot oiled and groomed.

Some of the giants are really gigantic,
like the tsunamis braved by muro ami’s.
But even then, the vase of roses still tantalize
the eyes of a lion. And the sea shells,
the sea shells just lie there like my body,
waiting but not expecting anyone.
Just there, ready to offer the songs of the sea
for those who understand why do an abandoned corpse
decompose while a moribund composition uplift the soul.

Enlighten me my friend: is life really just a wink?

31 january/ 13 february 2007