Satish Verma, 11 december 2014
Me and my pride,
me and my hurts.
Who are you, which you are not,
a verbless statement of nirvana?
No pain
no asking, narcissism.
A stream of unbecoming.
Eyes wide open
jaws tightly shut,
sitting in a corner, brooding,
brooding.
Now what?
A stunning duplicity,
a surrogate god
was running an empire.
Precisely polygamous
on the name of a latter saint
annihilating the third image.
The future demands its past,
its mode of becoming endosperm
in a sleeping leaf.
Gert Strydom, 11 december 2014
How strong
do I love thee?
Together we belong,
much more than mere feelings could be
is each word and deed in the daily throng
and far beyond eternity
our feelings go along
being gently
and free.
Gert Strydom, 11 december 2014
Much more
I do love you,
more than the day before
and although each day might be new
love is present in the simple things we do
and you I do deeply adore
even when out of view
feelings grow to
be true.
Gert Strydom, 10 december 2014
At times
I do wonder
if You do hear my words
or do give attention to them
as constantly You are in the shadow
where I do see nothing of You
but small things do happen
and You are here
nearby.
Gert Strydom, 10 december 2014
My Lord
the day does break,
it does feel as if You
are right here and the great beauty
does linger while I find deeper meaning,
do feel very humble like a child
where You do determine
every small thing
with love.
Satish Verma, 10 december 2014
After the rain wets the ground,
a damp, naked silence,
floats in air
on the wrong side of the moon.
A strange mist, like a post coital whiff
envelops you savagely.
The testa breaks.
A forest heaves beneath your nails.
History moves through the layers
of family. You become a forgotten saint,
an archaic reminder of half-solid
truth. Green mirrors reflect a fading sun.
Wasps are climbing on a presence,
for a kill. A lake drifts in the yes
to stun the departure. You breathe
death dreaming a blue flower.
Salvatore Ala, 9 december 2014
If you weigh the stars in the balance
Glaciers are nurseries of the stars.
They are weighbridges to the borealis,
Ice roads into isolated communities.
They’re hydroelectric power plants,
Evolutionary clocks, mammoth museums,
Icebox mountains of organic matter.
Meltwaters surge from the summits
Enlivening salmon in summer streams,
Nourishing the valley with snowmelt.
Glaciers are a kind of counterweight
To their own absence tipping the scale.
Once gone, what could replace glaciers
That we’d not burn in water/drown in fire.
Salvatore Ala, 9 december 2014
You want balance, but this abandoned bicycle
In Amsterdam borders on paralysis.
It is Chaplin pretending to be the Fuhrer.
It is whoever survives, whoever escapes…
It is a flower cart that flowers in the same spot.
It is modern art, the unraveling of modes,
Picasso’s “Bull’s Head” reconstituted,
A bicycle trellis in European horticulture,
An instrument for the music of rarest days.
Someone left this bicycle and didn’t return.
Someone locked this bicycle here and died,
Or moved, or moved away and died,
Or became a novelist, like Michel Houellebecq.
It’s a sacrificial lamb, a contract with loopholes,
A love letter from the bicycle crazes.
The wheels of the sky ripen among vines.
The pedals are powered by the sun,
And with wind, deep-rooted to the spot,
The lock is slowly unlocking, like space.
Salvatore Ala, 9 december 2014
You who reason and speak
Speak for us who have no names and no names.
You who come and go
Walk among wheelchairs in random space.
You who are alone
Open these doors to see who is alone and alone.
You who are lost
Find yourself among the lost who are lost.
You who are jealous
Look at what men owning nothing own.
You who hate
Imagine hatred when temperament is all tenderness.
You who are in pain
Ponder this painless abstraction.
You who have God
Consider a God of global amnesia.
You who are searching
Exit the mind and it is still mind and you are saved.
Salvatore Ala, 9 december 2014
for Alan Blind Owl Wilson
I’m going up to music mountain
Where all my friends have gone,
Where the air is pine-scented
And you’re high all the time.
They say the mountain is tuneful,
You can hear the fire of the sun,
And at night the humming stars
And beyond them, God’s blues harp.
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