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The poem: living within the poem

The poem composed last winter (November 2023 is already last year!!!) while I was reading JD’s “Good Friday, 1613. Riding Westward” and pondering about the fact that I, too, was going through the same thing (albeit in complimentary directions to Donne’s). Travelling north while my mind is bent on south (fine, centre).

Presenting to you in the hoarsest shitty voice that one could get. 

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I want to write about waters that divide; waters that unite by dividing.

But I cant.

Astagfirullah could be rewritten as #firullah

(don’t tell me you didn’t read it as hastagfirullah, you sick bastard!)

On a damp October morning, you were taught a lesson
By a butcher’s knife as it painted
The milky throat of a ram red
but you forgot everything but the juicy aroma
of the tender breast you so love
and how a careless discourtesy of a blood drop destroyed your blue dress.

It taught you why poets liken themselves to hardworkers, hunters, makers:
It taught you the swooshing dart is not to kill the hart
But to kiss the reflection of the hunter-heart.

You learned the tongue clamped between jaws, unchewed,
Like a pan or the bit of roasted barbecue you relished,
was dearer to the ram than the life the knife was bowing away;

that the tongue being robbed of its roots was turing into ears
and hears itself say, “it’s better to die with one’s tongue intact
Than live tongueless.

O, let the hands bow me to death – I will be the lyre;
but this business of being mine saviour tires me”

Something is happening: the chapter where the guy enters the martyrs room is to be finished in a detective mood. Also a side note: the guy in mushroom foraging tells the others about his theory of how one should consume entire forest, the only safest way. Duckweed with nettle. That’s why he doesn’t believe in juices and extracts: eat the entire fruit. There’s poison in the half portion, antidote in another half.

If you know not what my room is

When you see me dump nail pairings in it

You will never know either of us.

How does one start to sing? By singing? Of course. But why would one sing in the first place?

Here is Seiklos, mourning the death of his wife. Not to sound sexist or anything, that’s the beginning of music. That’s how notes were born.