Do You Care?
You know, my friend,
Once in a while, a piece of life burns and drops upon
A loner's soul,
Like fast, heavy mountain tops,
Collapsing infinitely,
Escaping heavenly domains only to strike all the
Loneliness into the most vulnerable core
Of his heart.
Do you care what is in his arms?
A perpetually naked, thorny rose, and, in his heart,
A strangely scaffolded acceptance, with no agility,
Just slinging obscenity.
What of the splendor of the roots of life that has secretly erected him unto
Death?
He knows, in a love story of life and death, which life gives not unto everyone,
One must be the gem that dies and goes out of the door of enigmas,
Made appear in the dawning light of madness,
Honored quickly at noon, or slowly at sunset, by martyrdom.
Hurt like a dog introduced unto love for the first time,
Bitten and banished by a colossal uncertainty,
Waiting for so long in the heavy rain for hope and hope's child,
Refusing to take shelter from the violence of the moment;
Waiting for someone whose presence it can smell and kiss,
But whose coming arrogantly gallops away.
Oh you just break and shatter as you try to walk,
With memories wounding your soul along the profound longitudes of loneliness.
Death never speaks of this, for it has no voice in its speech,
Nor does life possess the timid color of distancing things,
It just shines silently like a pair of gleaming, orphaned eyes, of a child,
In the evening rain.
He just waits until dreams, one by one, shy away from him;
In measuring change with stillness, he is bent into delirium,
Knowing almost no hope in this tidal game of love,
Minutely aware of his own mortality,
His dreams erratically become entangled in the shivering boughs of autumnal noon.
Somber, sorrow-colored by the pinions of love,
He is neither trapped in strong snowdrifts,
Nor being laughed at violently by destiny;
He is only defenseless on a shore of endless sand,
Which he welcomes with indigenous innocence,
Whereas the ocean gives its mouth of catastrophic might,
Wanting to know the cavernous solitude of his soul closely.
The southern tides keep breaking at his feet,
Knowing he too is a loner, like the sea itself,
But rendering himself too obscure, without understood legacy,
Unlike the one giving torrents of kisses.
The curtain is lifted when the winds whisper no longer,
When everyone else is asleep,
He is alone seeing the evening,
Not through a window, but
In a certain hidden undulating sea you know,
Pained by his own understanding of love and humanity.
Have you ever fallen in love like this,
With a girl of youth,
In a deep, sudden fissure of time at twilight?
Once seen and touched,
She becomes your life, trembling in your own spine,
As she cholerically flows and thievingly seduces,
You bear her name in everything raw and full,
With her loveliness cunningly fastened to your currents of madness,
Of surreptitiously migrating strengths and silences.
You speak of lofty, divulging, often taciturn things,
Of roaming portrayals,
Of ghosts and wildernesses sublimed,
Of flames unextinguished,
While she walks enchanted like mid-summer brooks wedded among themselves;
But then, due to a self-protected sullen sanctity,
She hides away behind your own clinging unto desire,
While you are blind beyond solace unto all this,
Then she shatters you like a jar of dilute soul and flesh
In a narrow, breathless path that befriends loneliness the most.
She enslaves your prodigious latitude,
Shifts you from balance, kidnaps you from intellect,
And pours you out of the veins of life,
Causing you to hunger to death,
Only to let you run down the slopes of her expensive moods,
Alone.
After the brief dawn of a drunk sighting,
She leaves you dying, and she knows it,
Perhaps as her heart whitens with compassion,
But, alas, a young woman is capable of letting go of
Nectar-filled blooms just like that, for a reason hardly glorious for a man,
Or, maybe she knows, she is never alone,
As the garden is constantly frequented by spoiling kisses from all directions,
And so her pride of being secure easily allows her to trample upon incidental admirers.
This, while she knows of your waiting at the empty train station,
Through the anxious hours and vast nights,
Drowning in great expectations of a kiss.
What stubborn lament are you hearing from me, my friend?
Oh, I'm sorry,
What weakling can color your day with his sentiments?
Do you think I have lost the days merely to her cruelty?
Which shivering hands of a weak---or strong---soul
Have planted this seed here for songs to flower and blossom,
Through chiseled pain and naked understanding?
I love her,
Though you may see naught but sad wrinkles,
Love is strong within its own unseen furrows,
At the core of stars,
In the fire of molten things,
On empty isles and lonely shores
Where, once in a while, hope is stranded.
Love, my friend, is strong though weak and peevish in appearance;
It is exalted in everything that takes roots and bears its own growth,
In everything that exists with the breath.
Have I ever asked you to hug me as a human being?
Let me feel your arms, beloved,
Lift them and devour me, I am indeed a rare taste in your veins;
Unveil my soul in the life of the crucified---then die,
Or live the life of a heathen.
Place your soft hand of a lovely, caring, female weaver
Upon my crushed, blackening fingers
Emerging from the depths of the rugged earth.
You see, I have been digging the earth for our dreams
To gush out with my blood of youth
Among tormenting rocks,
And to reach above the sun---with you;
So come, sweetheart,
Glue your lovely little self to my secret, and yet open, wounds.
Do you care?
Either bury this ancient sorrow in your neglect or
Caress me the way I would caress you,
Until nerves, whips, and scourges become impalpable
For a being constituted of clay and fire and also
Some might of the unknown.
Let the fire be repeated once more in rasping veneration,
And climb unto the mouth that craves for the taste of the full dawn
Of your youth.
Then gaze at the red branches in the park of lovers,
Where life fills its own cup through entwined hearts, lips, and arms,
And, perhaps, seek another countenance.
This is the last pain I shall suffer upon wings,
In these last lines, solitude welcomes me home
After sketching, shading, and erasing the dim face of my soul.
Do not mind this insanity,
For it is but the quickest, most spontaneous breeze,
A philosopher and poet can catch in his solitude.
Seeing life through wanting you like this,
Or wanting just a drop of dew and honey oozing from your pristine skin,
That might just taste you, all of you,
Has made my soul stumble and kiss its own fall in the rain.
14 January, 2010
(The objective of the above raw, unpolished poem is to mimic the deep, naked pain of an unknown youth---a friend of mine---and not to convey mere hopelessness. Inspired by "Kiss The Rain", from a beautiful Korean drama. Watch the video clip here:
)
You know, my friend,
Once in a while, a piece of life burns and drops upon
A loner's soul,
Like fast, heavy mountain tops,
Collapsing infinitely,
Escaping heavenly domains only to strike all the
Loneliness into the most vulnerable core
Of his heart.
Do you care what is in his arms?
A perpetually naked, thorny rose, and, in his heart,
A strangely scaffolded acceptance, with no agility,
Just slinging obscenity.
What of the splendor of the roots of life that has secretly erected him unto
Death?
He knows, in a love story of life and death, which life gives not unto everyone,
One must be the gem that dies and goes out of the door of enigmas,
Made appear in the dawning light of madness,
Honored quickly at noon, or slowly at sunset, by martyrdom.
Hurt like a dog introduced unto love for the first time,
Bitten and banished by a colossal uncertainty,
Waiting for so long in the heavy rain for hope and hope's child,
Refusing to take shelter from the violence of the moment;
Waiting for someone whose presence it can smell and kiss,
But whose coming arrogantly gallops away.
Oh you just break and shatter as you try to walk,
With memories wounding your soul along the profound longitudes of loneliness.
Death never speaks of this, for it has no voice in its speech,
Nor does life possess the timid color of distancing things,
It just shines silently like a pair of gleaming, orphaned eyes, of a child,
In the evening rain.
He just waits until dreams, one by one, shy away from him;
In measuring change with stillness, he is bent into delirium,
Knowing almost no hope in this tidal game of love,
Minutely aware of his own mortality,
His dreams erratically become entangled in the shivering boughs of autumnal noon.
Somber, sorrow-colored by the pinions of love,
He is neither trapped in strong snowdrifts,
Nor being laughed at violently by destiny;
He is only defenseless on a shore of endless sand,
Which he welcomes with indigenous innocence,
Whereas the ocean gives its mouth of catastrophic might,
Wanting to know the cavernous solitude of his soul closely.
The southern tides keep breaking at his feet,
Knowing he too is a loner, like the sea itself,
But rendering himself too obscure, without understood legacy,
Unlike the one giving torrents of kisses.
The curtain is lifted when the winds whisper no longer,
When everyone else is asleep,
He is alone seeing the evening,
Not through a window, but
In a certain hidden undulating sea you know,
Pained by his own understanding of love and humanity.
Have you ever fallen in love like this,
With a girl of youth,
In a deep, sudden fissure of time at twilight?
Once seen and touched,
She becomes your life, trembling in your own spine,
As she cholerically flows and thievingly seduces,
You bear her name in everything raw and full,
With her loveliness cunningly fastened to your currents of madness,
Of surreptitiously migrating strengths and silences.
You speak of lofty, divulging, often taciturn things,
Of roaming portrayals,
Of ghosts and wildernesses sublimed,
Of flames unextinguished,
While she walks enchanted like mid-summer brooks wedded among themselves;
But then, due to a self-protected sullen sanctity,
She hides away behind your own clinging unto desire,
While you are blind beyond solace unto all this,
Then she shatters you like a jar of dilute soul and flesh
In a narrow, breathless path that befriends loneliness the most.
She enslaves your prodigious latitude,
Shifts you from balance, kidnaps you from intellect,
And pours you out of the veins of life,
Causing you to hunger to death,
Only to let you run down the slopes of her expensive moods,
Alone.
After the brief dawn of a drunk sighting,
She leaves you dying, and she knows it,
Perhaps as her heart whitens with compassion,
But, alas, a young woman is capable of letting go of
Nectar-filled blooms just like that, for a reason hardly glorious for a man,
Or, maybe she knows, she is never alone,
As the garden is constantly frequented by spoiling kisses from all directions,
And so her pride of being secure easily allows her to trample upon incidental admirers.
This, while she knows of your waiting at the empty train station,
Through the anxious hours and vast nights,
Drowning in great expectations of a kiss.
What stubborn lament are you hearing from me, my friend?
Oh, I'm sorry,
What weakling can color your day with his sentiments?
Do you think I have lost the days merely to her cruelty?
Which shivering hands of a weak---or strong---soul
Have planted this seed here for songs to flower and blossom,
Through chiseled pain and naked understanding?
I love her,
Though you may see naught but sad wrinkles,
Love is strong within its own unseen furrows,
At the core of stars,
In the fire of molten things,
On empty isles and lonely shores
Where, once in a while, hope is stranded.
Love, my friend, is strong though weak and peevish in appearance;
It is exalted in everything that takes roots and bears its own growth,
In everything that exists with the breath.
Have I ever asked you to hug me as a human being?
Let me feel your arms, beloved,
Lift them and devour me, I am indeed a rare taste in your veins;
Unveil my soul in the life of the crucified---then die,
Or live the life of a heathen.
Place your soft hand of a lovely, caring, female weaver
Upon my crushed, blackening fingers
Emerging from the depths of the rugged earth.
You see, I have been digging the earth for our dreams
To gush out with my blood of youth
Among tormenting rocks,
And to reach above the sun---with you;
So come, sweetheart,
Glue your lovely little self to my secret, and yet open, wounds.
Do you care?
Either bury this ancient sorrow in your neglect or
Caress me the way I would caress you,
Until nerves, whips, and scourges become impalpable
For a being constituted of clay and fire and also
Some might of the unknown.
Let the fire be repeated once more in rasping veneration,
And climb unto the mouth that craves for the taste of the full dawn
Of your youth.
Then gaze at the red branches in the park of lovers,
Where life fills its own cup through entwined hearts, lips, and arms,
And, perhaps, seek another countenance.
This is the last pain I shall suffer upon wings,
In these last lines, solitude welcomes me home
After sketching, shading, and erasing the dim face of my soul.
Do not mind this insanity,
For it is but the quickest, most spontaneous breeze,
A philosopher and poet can catch in his solitude.
Seeing life through wanting you like this,
Or wanting just a drop of dew and honey oozing from your pristine skin,
That might just taste you, all of you,
Has made my soul stumble and kiss its own fall in the rain.
14 January, 2010
(The objective of the above raw, unpolished poem is to mimic the deep, naked pain of an unknown youth---a friend of mine---and not to convey mere hopelessness. Inspired by "Kiss The Rain", from a beautiful Korean drama. Watch the video clip here:
