Tag Archives: always

i become undone

i become undone,
with your touch on my neck,
collarbone yielding
to mesh into
the essence of you.

let down the guard,
feel arteries dilate,
take this one chance
and
i will fall
– like always –
into the boiling pot of us
without
noticing the pain.

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93. and wasn’t you the one meant to save me?

what do i do now that i’ve loved you far too long, far too much? i’m weak, i have no fight left in me. surrounded by this new world in the land of medieval tales and robin hood, i look back to the times i didn’t yet love you and wonder, how the hell did i fall so far, so deep, so unprotected?
and wasn’t you the one meant to save me?

a sandwich always lands butter side down; my loves always land like this: an aeroplane falling head on into a liquid abyss. sink or swim. the choice is yours and i surrender.

with you, i learnt to understand the silence and words dry up on the tip of my tongue.
i had so much to say but all comes down to this: i’m nothing without you. don’t ask me why: i don’t quite know myself.

the world off your shirt

i won’t wait on you,
but not because i don’t want to:
maybe i would have done on any other day—

that’s not to say that i don’t hate
standing at the train station waving at a departing train.
it’s not me, you understand?
in me there’s always an impulse to chase it.
just water, baby, to chase it. 

just water, a silent drizzle of impending rain:
it’ll wash the world off your shirt—
and i will smell crisp cotton again.

this field

you can have the whole of me in this field:
i pressed my soul into its loins
and beads of sweat still glisten
on the body learning to tango
in the outpour of rain.

i will surrender only here
so take care not to move even a strand of hair
from beneath the tree where i will lay through my whole life,
as if dying prematurely,
for this is home and i forbid you.

a day will come when spring will open me enough
for sun to shine
into the roots of the old cambridge tree
and open up
the rest of me.

—————————————————————-

i’ve been writing this poem for a while now and it feels forever unfinished. maybe that’s just me, always a word out, a syllable in. and then i give up and start something else. at the end of the day, however, i always come back to this. and the oldest tree in cambridge.

85. cherry soda loves

there was a line in streetcar named desire that i remember. it said it’s touching to notice them making their first discovery of love! As if nobody had ever known it before.  it resonates, for now the time has come for the bud to be broken and flowers to bloom in the late-spring night air.

the risk is nothing. nothing, really. there are only the long sprawling afternoons this side of summer, when paper is scrunched up into tiny little balls and burnt with a magnifying glass or matches. whichever, the result is all that matters. words are nothing: this air requires action! 
and there are trees, so beautiful this time of year. they remind me of walking to school in the summer and inhaling the scent of apple tree blossom with T. those were the days, eh?

but now, no now, those buds will open and blossom will scatter into the hands of a handsome young man that we choose. for me, this sweltering summer, it’ll be you. and, god willing (an expression i borrowed from an altogether more believing friend of mine), next summer also. for T (if we were boys, she’d be a brother from another mother) it will be someone else. Her new beau (a rather lovely Tenessee expression!). her very first. amazing stength and will and beauty.

so here we are, and isn’t it queer to think we shall be here always? in the arms of another, in the throes of spring, the coming summer alighting hopes in every single one of us, as if petards were thrown at the pavement before us, at our feet, at our willing young hearts?

and we can’t help this feeling hopeful. and we can’t pretend we didn’t want this life.
so every year, like clockwork, we will be discoving those cherry soda loves and shedding blossom in each other’s arms.

but we weren’t

we are intrepid dreamers
lost in the rhythm of this life.
we’ve lost belief,
but once we believed,
though never always,
and we could have been right.
but we weren’t.

———————————————————–

i thought i’d do something different and write a “sunday 160“. 
here’s to the future.
and to understanding.

83. write me a letter

 will anybody tell me if i’m missing out on life?

will anyone write me a letter just so i know?

and everybody seems to be making a film, a compilation of their thoughts right here, right now. irony is, i’m wasting my words on the wind, across the telephone wires that stretch inside my head. and when i am brave enough to speak my words out, they are spoken to you alone. what about the rest of the world? how will they ever know? 

you made a film with your friends. i guess that’s what you do in youth.
me? i used to leave my colouring books blank for fear of spoiling them. funny me.
and whenever creativity came to me, i wrote the words, drew the pictures on scraps of paper. i still have some of them. little pieces of my mind written in quickhand.

and though none of them relate to you, all that i remember of X is there: they are silent exultations, utterances of pain and dreams. they are free. 

sometimes, i still wish i coloured those pictures in.
and sometimes i know there’s no use wishing: it’s all too late now. i’ve sketched my life out in this morning sunshine. whatever happens now was always meant to be.