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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Personal poetry

Submitted: July 22, 2011

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Submitted: July 22, 2011



Damascus and light

Rays of light,
Under sullen skies
Hidden by the clouds so black and grey
And underneath this bleakness
Shines this little star
Attired in human flesh
That breathes and sighs and laughs and smiles
And rays of light
Would shine and shine on.
If I have seen the light,
And I have been blinded,
And blindness is sickness
But oh so sweet and sour
My bitterness will be innocent
My spite will vanish
And skies would be bleak no more.
Divinity, as spread by rays of light,
Is invisible, without perception,
But material and physical
and present here.
By rays of light
In human flesh
It takes form and stays and breathes
Divinity would need no alter
No temple and no church,
Its dwelling is so sacred
And it is living,
As the pulse beats within a vein
Of blood
Or feeling
Or sheer existence.
Spreading rays of light
Against this bleakness.


Can you subtract nothing from nothing,
Or turn water into wine,
Or make stars out of mud and dust?
If one once was right
It is evil that gives birth to good,
And mud that revives beauty.
But the man opened his drawer
Where there was no wine left
And he asked his god for more
And there came nothing,
So he just closed his eyes
And imagined water were wine
But it weren’t
And would not taste like wine but it was water and water only.
I would no more delude myself,
He said,
And said **** you god,
I am alone on my own
And his heart cried only for one thing
Only one thing
The beauty he saw once
Eternal existential
And he cried because it was like the wine
He did not have in his drawer.
Shall I die, he thought,
Or set myself afire?
Or just walk away,
Preferring whiskey
And this bitter
Sour taste
Of past, regret, confusion and end
Setting a bloody gore within.
If mud can give birth to beauty,
Can beauty give birth to mud????

De profundis

When I look back
Maybe not in anger
Maybe just to see
What had been there
And what I find
What I occasionally see –
The circling sharks
The sinking and rising water
The waves coming on and on
And my hand extended
Waiting for a hand
In that whirlwind
It was hard to stay solid
To stay as stable as I would have liked to
And I needed so much
I had never wanted that so much before
Battering waves, crying seagulls, sharks
And flesh that wanted to transpire, transcend and end
But all went down to the bottom
The sandy bottom under the waters of this past
And when I looked from there up to the surface of the sea
The light was so weak and weak again
So pale
As if there was no day above the waves
But only night
And perhaps I passed away.
But now
Past that feeling of responsibility
After the tides are gone
(But they might come again, I wish to say)
My hand, the extended one, is sickened by leprosy,
Maybe gone at all
And I can sit here on the bottom under the waves
As immunity might have already
been built up against the nightmares
And just as I shake my head
And shrug my shoulders
This flesh has been weak and still stays that weak
But is covered by the dust of time
Time damn time
And I still will be responsible
But I would not wish
I would not desire
I would not hope
I would not believe
That a hand will meet my leper hand
In absolute correlation.
God bless the unbelievers.


Can you smell the wet air in the night
The trees with the prolonged shapes of the branches
And their shadows crawling through the puddles
On the watery tarmac
And the night that has descended upon the city
Her veils thrown round the lights of the city centre buildings
And the rain that falls and falls…
Go out
Walk out
Into that night
Into that darkness
And smell the rain
Take it deep into the core of your lungs
And while you stride in the wet darkness
Have a glimpse at the lights
As they dimly flicker
And go past them, away.
Because you are free, so free
And the sullen skies above
Those sullen skies
And the pains and regrets of your morning
And the bitter taste of your afternoon
And the poison up and down your spine
They are all locked in the back room of your conscience
In the dark reservoir, the warehouse of your mind
Atlas is holding the globe on his arms
You know it is hard
You know there are so many swords
To slash and pierce your heart
And bleed your soul
And like apparitions they wander around into that rainy night
You can smell and feel their presence here
Their steps and their whispers
In the shadows, under the leaves, splashing in the puddles
And they will always try to bring you down
And drown you in the mud and dust under the heavy rain.
But nevertheless
While you walk in the wet darkness of the night
Stiffness in your neck
Pain in your throat
And the awful premonition of an oncoming storm
Of rain that would eventually turn into your own tears
You will feel your heart free
And liberated from chains
And ready to fly and fly and fly
And yes this is freedom
Oh God that freedom in your soul,
You adore it
It is the essential one, the subjective one
Beating in the centre of your veins
Oh God this freedom is your precious gold
That would make you light, light as a feather
And the heavy burdens upon you
Will be discharged, yes they will
And if you stick to your path in the night
Away from the dim lights
This pain will linger
But as Sisyphus, they say, is stronger than the rock he absurdly pushes
up and down
Walk, you have to walk, if you stop you would disappear
Then walk into the night and the rain
And rely on the beauty you would have to finally reveal
In the end.

On the day I die

On the day I die,
I will slowly lift above my deceased body,
I will slowly ascend and reach three metres over the earth.
I will sit there, on a chair of nothingness,
And I will watch the hurry and the fury,
The daze and the confusion
Of the people that will surround my dead Self.
I will see the cavalcade of faces passing by,
I will see the earth swallowing my body
And in the end, with the tide of the night,
I will go straight up to the lands I have always belonged to.
My flesh will be light,
My skin will be bright glitter,
I will be a construction of purity and symmetry.

Into A Room

Open the door,
Walk inside,
The key turns into the lock -
Can you smell the darkness,
Can you feel the walls watching you,
Pressing you?
They said I can always turn the lights on,
And I am groping for the switch,
My hands crawl on the surface of the plaster,
I feel the coldness of the walls
And I find, in the end,
The is no switch,
There is no light.

On the Sunday of Life

On this Sunday
When I contemplate on myself
Under the waves lulling life and time
My breath is already out
And I am standing on this Sunday
Past the Friday full of ashes
And before the recurring wheel of the Monday,
Life is dragging,
The ship wrecked on the rocks of Ithaca
And the hope
That was there on the far horizon,
The flickering whirlwind of sand
Rising to the heavens, sucking the lifeblood of lazy clouds,
And this whirlwind, I thought,
Will grab me, embrace me, thrill me, kiss me,
And lift me to God’s throne above.
Now, on this Sunday of Life,
Sitting on the rocks among my poor ship’s beams
Shattered, scattered all around,
I think,
I would say,
My Sunday is the end of my week,
Of my time,
Of all there is.

All the best

“All the best”, he said,
And firmly shook my hand,
On the door as I was leaving,
The room where fantasies come true,
The thick red carpet of centuries past,
The wooden table where gods would dine,
Oil portraits scrutinizing me, listening to me,
And I hoped, no, I dreamed
That I have returned to the serenity
Of my mother’s womb,
To the place I truly belong.
The door is closing and my steps
Slowly withdraw to the world outside,
The magic still dwells within me,
But as I walk, as I leave,
I still feel the firm handshake,
The voice that said “all the best”
And I hear it again,
As a farewell, a goodbye
To all the chamber’s treasuries I would not gain,
A sigh of fate rolling the wheel,
Turning the tide, saying
Not here, not here,


Human is a soft machine,
Mechanics working bad,
Construction fragile and weak,
Components in sluggish movement
Catalysed by vigour-lacking blood.
Human fuel is love
As a tender touch, a word,
A scent of flowers in the Sunday morning
Of weddings and sermons.
To keep the engine going,
To keep it running and dynamic,
Please look for a love station
To fill your tank and light the car,
Yes, you will have to.
Love stations have no demarcations on maps,
No roads to find them standing by,
You will need an emotional detector to find them –
A hand clocking at the right direction,
By asking inner questions –
Painful, but so important.
Love stations offer fuels of no price,
Just pour one into your tank and let go,
Your pocket, your purse will never be afflicted.
The cost to count for love, though,
Will not be a quarter of silver or gold,
or a bank account, or a roll of banknotes –
Just recall the old gentleman Shylock of Venice,
And the price of his bond,
This is the price charged by love stations,
A pound of flesh, your own flesh,
Why not – a pound of your soul,
Weighed up by the standards of divine grace.

© Copyright 2018 jurisprudent. All rights reserved.

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