1.
Ink bottles and pens
stand between me and the door
muttering complaints
that echo inside my head.
Sheets of paper pile up.
Worries stack up,
to trip my every step
on my way to the door
and the road outside.
2.
These are lies, all lies.
My blood boils, scalds,
then scolds me.
How long will this contamination
continue? How long should
I spit out my brains and cough
out my lungs merely for a chair
and a title? How long shall I sleep
with this preserved mummy?
I am not one of you, not one
of your fellowship of monks and
ascetics with dehydrated flesh
in cold cells.
My blood is too thick
to turn to water.
I am living a lie.
Take me to the city square
and rip the university insignia
from my lapel and strip me naked.
3.THE FLUTE
" God protect my child, my son.
He is his father's treasure,
the staff and bridge of our house,
he who carries its weight and burden ...
The new year waits outside the door, my daughter,
and tomorrow he will return to you.
Have patience. "
But tomorrow she might be dead
She has withered waiting
for me. In fantasy her blood
mingled with mine long before
she could taste the pleasure of flesh.
And she might die
with the flute she loves
dragging its sadness through
the evening hours. She might die
with the drooping white roses, she,
whose wedding gown was woven
by winter snow.
All day long her funeral
cortege winds through my nerves.
All day long the flute
she loves shrills its sad refrain.
She dies before she can celebrate
or know the comfort of a home,
the luxury and strength of a hand
that can provide shade.
4.THE WIND
All day long,
O Lord, to break away
from my mother and father, to escape
from my books, my cell,
from her who lives and dies waiting,
to step over hearts
including my own,
to drink from bitterness
without turning bitter
so that words will bloom again
on my lips, and my road
lead to the dark Bedouin girl
in the oasis of her untouched flesh,
in the valley of the noonday sun,
in the bitter sandstorm.
That wayward Bedouin girl
cannot be tamed except
by him who wears the patience
of a camel. And him in
whose heart a child builds a paradise.
Except by him who lives on
strange fruits
some grown with difficulty
some picked with case.
She rises shaking off desert tales
from her braids, chanting,
whirling wherever I point
but eluding me
like a joyous storm.
The wind has its season
of rage.
alone with the words,
I drink from the bitter cup
without feeling the bitterness.
The wind blows wherever my fingers point
and the virgin soil aches
at the sound of night thunder,
drinks in the dream of rain,
and turns it into vine,
and roots of the pine.
What else but to join
the white domes into a single dome,
reflecting in its glow
the forests of young cities
that welcome all.
Can the waters of
a single sea be separated?
Now I see the peacock
sailing in a fan of its feathers
swaying
thinking that
elegant poems and roses
can cover up the shame
of his comic existence.
He has two breasts
greater than any nursing mother's.
Harvests gold and ivory.
If he were worthy,
I would have led him to Golgotha,
to the Cross. But he is not.
And I leave him to the winds
of sand,
mud and dung
to cover the honey and treasure
of his breasts
The season of the raging wind
will wipe off the antique
and rusted fences of the mind.
5.THE HERMIT
The hermit questions me in my imaginings
" You have neglected your studies?
Were you following the jinni?
Or were you tempted by Satan? "
" I was alone with the dark Bedouin girl
drinking from the bitter cup
without turning bitter. "
" Mad riddles! " the hermit
returns to his old goods.
6.
All day long blurred
images visit my mind
like waves
My mother and father and she
who lives and dies in waiting.
The defeated hermit in my head
gathers up his strength and
begins to scold again
while I wake and see
a desert of paper, old paper,
piled between me and the door.
And beyond, a valley of more paper
and beyond them both
a lifetime of old paper.
Ink bottles and pens
stand between me and the door
muttering complaints
that echo inside my head.
Sheets of paper pile up.
Worries stack up,
to trip my every step
on my way to the door
and the road outside.
2.
These are lies, all lies.
My blood boils, scalds,
then scolds me.
How long will this contamination
continue? How long should
I spit out my brains and cough
out my lungs merely for a chair
and a title? How long shall I sleep
with this preserved mummy?
I am not one of you, not one
of your fellowship of monks and
ascetics with dehydrated flesh
in cold cells.
My blood is too thick
to turn to water.
I am living a lie.
Take me to the city square
and rip the university insignia
from my lapel and strip me naked.
3.THE FLUTE
" God protect my child, my son.
He is his father's treasure,
the staff and bridge of our house,
he who carries its weight and burden ...
The new year waits outside the door, my daughter,
and tomorrow he will return to you.
Have patience. "
But tomorrow she might be dead
She has withered waiting
for me. In fantasy her blood
mingled with mine long before
she could taste the pleasure of flesh.
And she might die
with the flute she loves
dragging its sadness through
the evening hours. She might die
with the drooping white roses, she,
whose wedding gown was woven
by winter snow.
All day long her funeral
cortege winds through my nerves.
All day long the flute
she loves shrills its sad refrain.
She dies before she can celebrate
or know the comfort of a home,
the luxury and strength of a hand
that can provide shade.
4.THE WIND
All day long,
O Lord, to break away
from my mother and father, to escape
from my books, my cell,
from her who lives and dies waiting,
to step over hearts
including my own,
to drink from bitterness
without turning bitter
so that words will bloom again
on my lips, and my road
lead to the dark Bedouin girl
in the oasis of her untouched flesh,
in the valley of the noonday sun,
in the bitter sandstorm.
That wayward Bedouin girl
cannot be tamed except
by him who wears the patience
of a camel. And him in
whose heart a child builds a paradise.
Except by him who lives on
strange fruits
some grown with difficulty
some picked with case.
She rises shaking off desert tales
from her braids, chanting,
whirling wherever I point
but eluding me
like a joyous storm.
The wind has its season
of rage.
alone with the words,
I drink from the bitter cup
without feeling the bitterness.
The wind blows wherever my fingers point
and the virgin soil aches
at the sound of night thunder,
drinks in the dream of rain,
and turns it into vine,
and roots of the pine.
What else but to join
the white domes into a single dome,
reflecting in its glow
the forests of young cities
that welcome all.
Can the waters of
a single sea be separated?
Now I see the peacock
sailing in a fan of its feathers
swaying
thinking that
elegant poems and roses
can cover up the shame
of his comic existence.
He has two breasts
greater than any nursing mother's.
Harvests gold and ivory.
If he were worthy,
I would have led him to Golgotha,
to the Cross. But he is not.
And I leave him to the winds
of sand,
mud and dung
to cover the honey and treasure
of his breasts
The season of the raging wind
will wipe off the antique
and rusted fences of the mind.
5.THE HERMIT
The hermit questions me in my imaginings
" You have neglected your studies?
Were you following the jinni?
Or were you tempted by Satan? "
" I was alone with the dark Bedouin girl
drinking from the bitter cup
without turning bitter. "
" Mad riddles! " the hermit
returns to his old goods.
6.
All day long blurred
images visit my mind
like waves
My mother and father and she
who lives and dies in waiting.
The defeated hermit in my head
gathers up his strength and
begins to scold again
while I wake and see
a desert of paper, old paper,
piled between me and the door.
And beyond, a valley of more paper
and beyond them both
a lifetime of old paper.