What a mistake

Humanity is a monster,
eating at its own womb,
as it tries to create
a blood soaked rosy future.
**

I can’t , I can’t find words
to write a poem, for the eleventh
consecutive night ( Poetry writing month though, this is )
when maybe a child is held captive
forever the innocent age of eight
in the darkness that mocks us
right in front of our eyes.
Maybe we ripped out her vocal cords
on the first day, for who wants to hear
the cries of a dead child being raped
till the very end of days.
**

What is it
that keeps the world moving
in the face of this shit storm.
Tell me, tell me.
Or don’t.
I can’t hear your answers
over the howls of mothers
who wish they could exchange places
with their dead daughters.
**

Collective suicide, where we are all headed
is such an easy exit, the easiest way to quit
for all the misery we have wrought
on one another.

What a mistake of evolution, we humans are.

 

 

 

 

 

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Keeping Quiet

Keeping Quiet
by Pablo Neruda

Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still.

For once on the face of the earth,
let’s not speak in any language;
let’s stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines;
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.

Fisherman in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would not look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victories with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
Life is what it is about;
I want no truck with death.

If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.
Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive.

Now I’ll count up to twelve
and you keep quiet and I will go.

 

Sweetness, always

“Sweetness, always” by Pablo Neruda

Why such harsh machinery?
Why, to write down the stuff and people of everyday,
must poems be dressed up in gold,
or in old and fearful stone?

I want verses of felt or feather which scarcely weigh,
mild verses
with the intimacy of beds
where people have loved and dreamed.
I want poems stained
by hands and everydayness.

Verses of pastry which melt
into milk and sugar in the mouth,
air and water to drink,
the bites and kisses of love.
I long for eatable sonnets,
poems of honey and flour.

Vanity keeps prodding us
to lift ourselves skyward
or to make deep and useless
tunnels underground.
So we forget the joyous
love-needs of our bodies.
We forget about pastries.
We are not feeding the world.

In Madras a long time since,
I saw a sugary pyramid,
a tower of confectionery –
one level after another,
and in the construction, rubies,
and other blushing delights,
medieval and yellow.

Someone dirtied his hands
to cook up so much sweetness.

Brother poets from here
and there, from earth and sky,
from Medellin, from Veracruz,
Abyssinia, Antofagasta,
do you know the recipe for honeycombs?

Let’s forget about all that stone.

Let your poetry fill up
the equinoctial pastry shop
our mouths long to devour –
all the children’s mouths
and the poor adults’ also.
Don’t go on without seeing,
relishing, understanding
all these hearts of sugar.

Don’t be afraid of sweetness.

With or without us,
sweetness will go on living
and is infinitely alive,
forever being revived,
for it’s in a man’s mouth,
whether he’s eating or singing,
that sweetness has its place.

No Goodbyes

“Come from forever
and you will go everywhere.”
-Rimbaud

 

Because
goodbyes are a thing I don’t believe in,
as we carry parts of each other
forever in our hearts,
for it is from the infinite
that we are born
and it is to that place
we will finally retire to.

Meanwhile,
there are journeys
landscapes, times spent
together and apart
growing slowly like a library,
like moss on hillside,
a pathway in the heart
of mountains

And
so we live, in ourselves
as ourselves
but never apart.

ennui

The ticking clock
sweeps its arms
around the days laying
scattered in my room.
My calendar has lost
its months,
its weekends
have acquired the ennui
of working hours
without you,
I am only an endless grey sky,
a still photograph
of stagnating seasons
and my heart, a city abandoned
due to a nuclear accident.