Tag Archives: has

81. the yellow vibrancy of life

how vain i should be to reread my own posts, but sometimes, late at night or early in the morning, i find myself scrolling through the past on the computer, mouthing the words or simply caressing them with my eyes. because within me there is something i have not yet understood. an undercurrent of a river lost in my old, unpracticed tongue.
rio de la plata maybe. or river of the sun.

even the sun has sunspots, darker on the background of virginal white; and so i have the blind spots: i always find them when i try. no light is enough to banish the spot of darkess on my sleeve: the drop of blood refusing to wash off in hot water. it would wash off in the cold, i know, but it’ll never get the chance.
chances are far and in between, don’t you know?

and i find myself every time, unexpected, like red peonies on a rose bush in may.
находжу себе кожен раз в шматку чорного хліба.

but what is there to find, other than the poems i had learnt by heart in years three and five. and seven. wordsworth’s daffodils.
the yellow vibrancy of life.


the blind spot

as an endless circle
of coiled nucleic acid strand
without a protein coat
to hide in

so here you are:
i’m naked
like the moon,
causing the tides of your moods,
falling behind
the thick mesh of clouds
and reappearing
as a sliver
after total destruction
of another menstrual lifecycle

and i’ve noticed
you don’t see the moon unless you’re looking for it
or sleeping with your face under the open sky

its coming and going
passes the world silently by

that’s why my whole life
has been about finding
the blind spot
in the lover’s eyes.

72. on a carousel of heights

one more year nearly over but this time i won’t attribute it to anyone. no, not to you or X or Y. it wasn’t mine either for it took me on a ride, spinning me around on a carousel of heights. and i can’t see the lows, looking back into all that time through my rose-tinted glasses. i can’t.
lets leave them lurking in the shadows, where past has teeth and broken dreams, like glitter, pave the floor.
i’ll visit them again. i have before.

i’m supersticious.
and i believe.
i believe that one must welcome a year in with the colours of its chinese animal; that one must drink a glass of champagne as the clock stikes midnight; that the way one spends new year’s eve will be the way one spends the year.
my supersticions supersede any norm of rationality, but darling, you said so yourself, i’m the luckiest person you know.

lets believe.
believe that there’s some truth to supersticion after all and drink champagne tonight.
and it’ll be the night when i will set the sky alight, our paper lantern flying up above. i’ve found love.

who was it?

who’s been alive in you,
wading in the mesh of liquid wires
through the medleys half-sung and the letters unsent
the nights wasted sleeping
time, like currency, spent

who drew the curtains, left vacant sign
on every window of every door
and begged the world to give you more
than this

who was it?


everybody who has ever been truly loved has that person, that left them because they loved them far too much to let them settle for a rainbow in the sky.

55. and you wasn’t here and he was

once this was my safe haven.
that changed, like everything changes, life swirling us all about in a glass of rosé or champagne, or cheap white wine, if you’d rather.
and i notice that i’ve become agreeable, but no more than that. i’m still all here, all me.

and then on tuesday the rainbow of my life seemed to have been broken up into the component colours and merged together, forming black.
is black a colour? i don’t know. all i know is, i couldn’t possibly write on tuesday or wednesday. or yesterday even. but with time comes acceptance. so here i am now, accepting my failed anonymity.

Y has read my diary, this. every word, or most, violated with his eyes.
and i asked him not to.
i asked everyone close to me not to read it. everyone complied. but him.

i didn’t send a link. i didn’t tell him the name i assumed or the posts i’ve written. i merely read him a poem.
the last poem i had written here, trace of us.
i didn’t read it so he would find me. i never thought he would.
i read it because i felt like i needed to read it to someone and you wasn’t here. i read it because it was about him.

next thing i know, or rather remember, someone, and it could have been anyone but something tells me it was him, typed trace and put the cork essence of us blog into google.

he found me. 

he was the only person i read that poem to. the only one. and it can’t have possibly been anyone else. 
the search was done less than an hour after i read him the poem.

and though i didn’t start the blog for him or X or you even, i thought of deleting it or not writing any more.
but in the end, i haven’t started this blog for him so what if he reads it?

i haven’t started this blog for him and he won’t be the reason i end it.

46. like a disco

how did i manage to walk this yellow-brick road and stumble into the emerald city without any sense of realisation? without triumph or glory? without stopping to admire the view?
how is it that i almost can’t remember what my Auntie Em looked like or of how i’ve grown into these ruby slippers, mine by default and no more?
and darling, how comes it none of it matters any more?

my past is past. 
i remember i worried that it may not last. that it’ll lose itself in the water of oblivion somewhere in the base of forbidden fountain. but i know now that the cyclone that brought me here will never return. that chasm has been closed off forever as of today.
my citizenship application has been successful and i am ready to see where else this yellow brick leads.

so here i am now, cruising this jade-encrusted city, as the green glass glitters in the pale light of the setting sun. 
my toto has run off, or maybe he was never here, but what does it matter? i was always meant to walk these streets alone. and somewhere in the distance i hear the wizard command “close your eyes and tap your heels together three times. and think to yourself, there’s no place like home.”

so i do.

and i remain standing just where i was, the bright lights of london like a disco.
my own private party.