fight me not, i have lost already.
fight me not, you will never win.
fight me not, i have lost already.
fight me not, you will never win.
words
lurk
into my worlds.
an attack in disguise.
an instant of insecurity.
the moment of the attack is the moment of letting go.
jump in this cloudy happiness,
make it shine.
disfigured members crowd my memories
is there resistance in clouds?
resistance transforms into heat.
speed melts into fire.
space collapses into worldly particles.
words transformed into elements lost in translation of a non language
into a lost tongue.
Looking for a sound
my sound.
Looking for my tongue.
Looking for my song.
T’is in this small chamber of yours
that generation upon generation children were born
and now that old age has come
this small chamber of yours will bear no more
children and no more sorrows.
Blankets and blankets over that lonely bed of yours,
rugs under rugs and more rugs, some torn.
Your childhood fantasies hide somewhere in this home.
Tonight you sit and ponder over the chores of your many tomorrows.
T’is with caution that you cross these doors.
Ever since you began to mourn
Your mother, your father, your sister and your home
T’was then that these doors began to feel too narrow.
12/01/2014
watercolour by yzagor
Can it be that a column never falls
and a heart never ceases to beat for another?
That a bubble of air never bursts
and a smile never begins to depart?
Gone I am from the days I have known
and from those who once gave me food.
A life of one’s own too real to be good.
A little everyday
everyday a little
of you and of me on a page, in a cloud
in the rubble of my neighbourhood
in the rules for us to follow or to break
in the music of your dreams
and the infinite silence of your thoughts.
I never knew of a life so sad
nor of such pain gathered in the body of a child.
I never knew of so much violence hidden in so deep a love
of a mother, of a lover
nor of such loyalty as in a dog’s gesture
of such absence in a empty bed
or of such comfort in the light touch of a cat.
watercolour by yzagor
silence is what you leave behind
what you say when you lie
what I hear when you speak
the image is dark
the frame cold and humid.
remembering doesn’t hurt,
it breaks me
hoping doesn’t uplift
it isolates me
living doesn’t fit
it kills me
it was when you spoke that all lit up and the day began.
Dictionary entry (The New Shorter Oxford English Dictionary, 1993 edition) n. Late 16th century, from latin idem= same, probably after entitas = entity, but perhaps associated with identidem = repeatedly. Thus ident– was established as the combining form of idem. Compare IDENTIC, IDENTIFY.
Today’s understanding of the noun identity adheres to the second definition given by the dictionary. But before it became so it meant something quite different: “absolute sameness”, and truth be said, wouldn’t a word, like a person, carry its history within its present? The dna of a word we could call it. So identity has something to do with being the same as someone else – could we interpret this in such a way as to associate it with the desire of belonging to a group, small or big, to which I want to identify with so as not to stick out or appear different? It could mean: socially, that we all do the same things at a reasonably similar time of our lives – school, university for those who can, marriage, children, baptism and so on; politically: we try things out here and there but end up in an established party or party line; psychologically: we do all we can not to stand out too much, only enough so as to receive praise for our achievements; culturally: we behave, we think, we talk in a way that is acceptable and accepted… otherwise we are: eccentric, weird, mad… or simply different. And this difference does not lie simply in the colour of our eyes, our hair or even our skin, which of course has further and deeper connotations in our society – let us not forget colonialism, racism… all those –isms. It is a difference caged much deeper, a difference in the essence (of things)… and which inevitably puts those who are different outside the norms.
tbc
I lived my life walking through it.
Memories are vague and mostly out of focus.
Clear memories only come in the shape of dreams,
by now forgotten.