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Let us reflect on
the obscure nature of poetry in modern times. I would like to
start with a personal experience. A few days back I had to apply
for a tourist visa to Europe. I filled out the visa form in this
manner; Profession - poet, and Reason for Travel- poetry
reading. The girl at the visa counter looked puzzled; maybe she
couldn’t think of writing poetry as a profession. In the present
day world, poetry has become just a part time hobby. One has to
be teacher, doctor or something else before being a poet. Those
days are gone when the job of a poet was a highly regarded one,
and poets commanded respect in society. Today, a person can be a
full time player, dancer, artist or politician, but cannot be a
full time poet.
Every other branch of art seems to be lucrative, a painter for
instance can sell his paintings for a substantial amount of
money, but poetry cannot feed a poet. It burns away the poet's
heart, and takes away his/her money.
was no earth, the universe was bare
and all my sides were luminous
and my face was luminous and my eyes were luminous
and the soles of my feet were luminous
and even the spot where the soles of my feet stepped was
And I wasn't capable
of even the slightest waning
of even nearing the awareness of waning
and from the moment there was awareness of waning, waning was
I was asked not to look at the tree
Where knowledge grew.
The instruction to Adam was also the same.
One day we both touched the tree
Ate the fruit
Received knowledge forbidden...
It was born of a portrait of fog unmentionable
Waves lit this voracity.
The foundations of the day went on to the blood
The cities remained white Watched the halves
of the same body in different coffins.
Here I am,
standing with empty hands, the dagger, the whip, the mallet, the
knife on the floor, scattered around my shoes. Wheat stalks
waiting for the gleaner to come.
The angel (pale wings of a black albatross) does not look like
someone who would use weapons with a blade. He looks like
anything but a hired killer. He leans over with such elegance
(my God, a Botticelli painting with a sweet-gaze Madonna) that I
think right away: he is going to pick up a bunch of flowers, a
dozen chrysanthemums will sprout instantly on the tile floor,
and He, because he is clairvoyant, anticipates such miraculous
But not so: with the gesture of a magician, He opens his palm
over the objects of violence spread out at my feet, and he makes
a bundle with them, as if it were a heap of asparagus or a bunch
of daisies, not to say a bundle of firewood.
From here I can see Him throw them into the pond, like whoever
after a crime wants to erase fingerprints from a gun handle.
Seeing he reaches out to me, palms up, I step back...
I lived at
the edge of the town
like a streetlamp whose light bulb
no one ever replaces.
Cobwebs held the walls together,
and sweat our clasped hands.
I hid my teddy bear
in the holes in the unskillfully built stone walls
saving him from dreams.
When we grow apart
the contents of the air will change,
sorrow will descend unheard
on the outer sides of waterspouts
like the shadow of a frightened lizard.
Every waking outside of our bed
will be condemned,
every filling and emptying of the chest
will become an involuntary conquest of space.
Closeness will escape our hands like a drop
from the body of a fish just caught.
dreams that no one remembers
and people wailing at the wrong graves.
I saw embraces in a falling airplane
and streets with open arteries.
I saw volcanoes asleep longer than
the roots of the family tree
and a child who's not afraid of the rain.
Only it was me no one saw,
only it was me no one saw.Nikola
My bow is
the arrow a weed
in the market.
I am a pilgrim
all windows and doors
and flogged him with
I was naught.
after a bath