Three Metaphysical Ironies

I.  The Lessons

Infinite smiles passed me before I learned to smile. 

Solitude, my guest,

spoke a foreign language.

I stroked his head

fingers through hair

I wrote him letters

and spread myself before him in surrender.

I wanted to obey the truth

but I just avoided it

and my solitude grew

in depth along my house

into which children peered

until they fell asleep

never to awaken

uttering oaths to their dreams.

I would find them cold 

and boneless on days

when smiling people recovered me.

My unspoken guest, in grief,

would clean accumulated dust from his person

and breathe as if it were his last one.

I wrote poems to the children 

but they flew away in the wind

unread.

I remembered my childhood

many small steps

regarding the big  ones.

I passed my black cloak and grave

throwing to them

my solitude’s dust

I didn’t want to finish my poem and I knew

I would learn to smile one day.

II.  Ahmad

I’ve said your name

many times which has

no significance

It’s hard and large

and doesn’t fit.

I’ve stroked your head

but your tiny hairs

stand up like pointed pines

and cut my hands.

I’ve tasted your blood and 

sweat which smell of turpentine.

Many pages I read

from back to front

interpreting my evilness yet

day and night I

let my shadow free,

I have no other.

You warmly sing to me of

the past

I listen to the birds.

We only meet in making love

It’s useless to hold your hand

which would escape

Although I carry pieces of  you 

in my pockets,

I don’t know why.

III.  Repeat

I saved my words in

tiny jars and spoke in moans.

I wound my hair around my 

waist and sat before the mirror.

Repetition dissolved itself

in air revolving

around my head in masses.

The mirror broke

I had no image

of myself.

May 15, 2011 | Categories: 5 March 1986, poetry | Tags: Three Metaphysical Ironies | 1 Comment »