Monthly Archives: March 2011

One of these poems.


My favorite type of poems. You dont know why you are reading, but you keep reading, and it builds, like a love affair you are not sure you should keep pursuing, but you do, and it builds, and sometimes the lines are blurry, and you dont understand a few words or why his eyes looked at you like that, and you keep going, and the kisses keep coming and your body is full of light, and the light hits the screen and you read some more, possibly even not breathing right, the way he crushed you in sleep and forgetfullness and you are still reading, in the shadowy dusk of an afternoon in an office, where there is too much laughter and yet you are cold. And the last line tells you why you did all this, and you can stop.

Frank O’Hara

How funny you are today New York
like Ginger Rogers in Swingtime
and St. Bridget’s steeple leaning a little to the left

here I have just jumped out of a bed full of V-days
(I got tired of D-days) and blue you there still
accepts me foolish and free
all I want is a room up there
and you in it
and even the traffic halt so thick is a way
for people to rub up against each other
and when their surgical appliances lock
they stay together
for the rest of the day (what a day)
I go by to check a slide and I say
that painting’s not so blue

where’s Lana Turner
she’s out eating
and Garbo’s backstage at the Met
everyone’s taking their coat off
so they can show a rib-cage to the rib-watchers
and the park’s full of dancers with their tights and shoes
in little bags
who are often mistaken for worker-outers at the West Side Y
why not
the Pittsburgh Pirates shout because they won
and in a sense we’re all winning
we’re alive

the apartment was vacated by a gay couple
who moved to the country for fun
they moved a day too soon
even the stabbings are helping the population explosion
though in the wrong country
and all those liars have left the UN
the Seagram Building’s no longer rivalled in interest
not that we need liquor (we just like it)

and the little box is out on the sidewalk
next to the delicatessen
so the old man can sit on it and drink beer
and get knocked off it by his wife later in the day
while the sun is still shining

oh god it’s wonderful
to get out of bed
and drink too much coffee
and smoke too many cigarettes
and love you so much

half poem half dream.


The ineptitude of the soul in dealing with loss.


I was never good at math. You did this, then I did that, then you did this, then equations of differentiation inert.

How all this addition of time, and hands that clenched, is summed up in a hole, abyss.

I was never good at science. You touched me, and cells awakened, and I touched you, and the earth still moved.

How all this physical matter resulted in combustion, leaving pulverized steam I once licked off your skin, a world away.

I was never good at business, you gave this, and then I gave that, and you took again, and kept the fists open for gifts I never knew were precious.

How all this profit left us bereft, my waist a hollow sphere of foreign bank notes, useless.

But I was always good with words. And you, never with listening.

How the benediction fell dead on this gravesite of knowledge we once called love.




Why do we let poetry affect us so. What a madness of the spirit, what a communal letter to the world.


Charles Bukowski

waiting for death
like a cat
that will jump on the

I am so very sorry for
my wife

she will see this
shake it once, then


Hank won’t

it’s not my death that
worries me, it’s my wife
left with this
pile of

I want to
let her know
that all the nights
beside her

even the useless
were things
ever splendid

and the hard
I ever feared to
can now be

I love

Dirty Nasty Gorgeous Charles.


Anyone ever read Mr Bukowski? With his dirty fingernails scraping the bodies of young women? With his beer belly and his inertia? With his nasty anecdotes and late night fuck fests with the great unwashed passers by? I had the immense joy (if it can be called that, the man singularly dashed all my hopes) of reading an entire book of his poems in Seattle two years ago. Yesterday I was introduced to the gem below by my lovely poetician room mate ,JJ, who will be showcased here asap as well.
Breakups all around us, sighs and tears for lovers, other new bodies that ignite slumbered senses, and the cycle of being Alone With Everybody never ends. Befitting this week.

Alone with Everybody
Charles Bukowski

the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
and nobody finds the
but keep
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than

there’s no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular

nobody ever finds
the one.

the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill

nothing else

Binmugahid joins the clan.


Binmugahid is my friend and a reluctant poet. He prefers the possible poetry in 140 characters, and the smell and sight of shisha smoke to the microphone. Encouraged by our local community, he has now performed twice with the Dubai Poeticians and we sure hope he comes back for more, ups the ante, delivers more hardcore thoughts, does not self censor and finds a poetic voice within the storytelling. A brave man to put himself out there, I commend him on taking the time and energy to write poetics in a place many have given up on, opening up places within himself many keep shut, sharing with his community, many of them forgotten.

It’s not common that a poem has a
Table of contents,
but this one does

1-Explain your current situation

2-And then attempt justification.

3-Criticize yourself, brutally

4-In the process come to a realization

5-Perhaps mention the women

6-How they came and went

7-Explain the state of your heart,

8-In how many ways it was bent.

9-Ask if you are alone? Is this some lack of maturity?

10-Or it a curse of sorts, perhaps an ironic profundity?

11-Try to make sense of it all, see If this can be mended.

I’m in love again.

Suddenly, A woman walked into my life, and made all other women disappear

I gave up the former life, she gave me a vision that was clear.

I dreamt of love and lasting friendship, of dying in each others arms

I dreamt of the farm house, the cars and even the trap I’d setup for the mouse

I dreamt of plenty of boys and girls, playing in a garden with palm trees

I dreamt of everything, perhaps too much

of sneaking into the house for love making or maybe a home made brunch

she too was dreaming, in details like mine if not more

And then our dreams collided, when lady reality knocked our door

She came as a guest at first, quick visits here and there

But soon she became a regular, every minute she was there

She left something in the relationship, doubt, fear or mistrust

The sparks were now a bonfire, the breeze was now a gust.

She left us battling our own fears, of being betrayed, being lost into the other

She fooled us into thinking, if this doesn’t work out, we can always find another.

And then it all imploded the happy ending that was to come, was now no more.

Were there signs? Sure, there was plenty of writing was on the wall,

But we never cared to erase it, it was always the other person’s chore.

I’m now critical of love, jaded, insecure and unsure

And then a woman walks into my life, casually, unlike before

And I’m in love again

This is a woman I can adore, she has no dreams but me, No detailed plans, not even a country.

I find myself a new man, the object of all her affections

She tells me sweet things about me, that make me doubt my mirror’s reflection

I question her motives, her feelings, even her womanhood

No woman can be this sweet, nothing can be this good

I freak, I panic I get royally scared

I search for things that are wrong with her, things that are not even there

Things.. That I didn’t even care about before

So I disappear, I act weird, I go far when she comes near

I guess what was happening is that I was living in fear

Of being with her and hurting ones that I hold dear.

And then it exploded, publicly, like “never before” and I learned something about myself that I never knew

I love being in love

My macho self awakes and screams at me: what are you, who are you? You call yourself a man

I snicker and check myself down there, I concur, and yell: That I am

But a funny thing happens during the momentary inspection

That part of me looks back at me and makes a suggestion

Don’t look at me, Slave master

find a way to stop your heart from beating faster

And I laugh and I act like I’m in full control,

I’m a man; I can switch things on and off

I can suppress feelings I can bring them to the fore

And then…..I fall in love with love

For that I apologize, on behalf of men, on behalf of me

It’s not my fault that God created woman so magnificently.

A lot can be said about the shapely form, the hair and complexion

About the voice that makes a strong heart weak

The tears that science says has a negative effect on your erection

One could even talk about the ability to make a bad situation better,

Or turning sperm into beautiful babies or groceries into supper

Maybe I’m not alone in this, perhaps love is a drug, a pleasant interruption

The frequency of falling in love with love, is now getting dysfunctional

One after the other, one with another, two sometimes, at one time three

And then the effects of love overdose start to kill me.

I lose my belief in my ability to love thee

If this was love honey, why does some other girls smile, affect me?

It’s not that I don’t love or have never loved you.

But my heart tells me that I’m not the one that’s meant to be

Because, I’m in love again

Only this time, I’m not fooling myself

I am a fool for love, who’ll die alone,

a cherished or cursed memory hidden in another fool’s home.

Not sure who sent this to me.


But thank you. I do not know why I remembered it just now, but I pass the gift along.

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
by E. E. Cummings

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands