She, too, pursues her ends,
Brutal as the stars of this month,
Her pale head heavy as metal.
Ted Hughes, 'Snowdrop'
You are the poison
I would drink
I would die
Unshipped in words that fall withering
Like these that fail, falter
And now blaze, blaze, penetrate, evaporate
People like words
Are deceptive, temporary, forgettable – Just because they can be
The story you told
Is the story
O little wee soul with the body of an angel
O body of water
That dares and dithers
Between this rose and that rose
Eating the petals - Taking infusions of the petals
Little pink things, cherubim broth
The petals of the blush rose and the petals of the dog rose
To feel how the bud opens to receive sunlight and water
Perhaps you don’t want to keep running back into books?
Perchance you won’t?
Perhaps you want to fold back into your little-big Zen heavens?
The ones where you don’t remember someone, anyone
Because nobody remembers you
The story you told
Is the story
The familiar, speculative, I divagate
To calibrate the love and mourn the life
In languages less spoken
And words never said
Screeding across the Brandywine on the Bucklebury Ferry
Be silent when I speak if you will hear
Love’s perspicacious promissories
Be still when I am silent -
You will see time’s univocal
Read the 'Contextual Notes' to the poem here.
Rehan Qayoom is a poet of English and Urdu, editor, translator and archivist. Educated at Birkbeck College, University of London, he has featured in numerous literary publications and performed his work internationally. He is the author of 2 books of poetry and several works of prose and criticism. He lives in London.
In my dream
I went back
to my mother’s house.
It was winter; she
sat at the edge
of my bed
while I slept--
shivering, as she would
in my moonlit room, with
the Aurora Borealis-painted
plaster ceilings and moody skies.
This time, instead of
remembering my father, she
watched over me…
You only live once. You
are what you dreamt you
were. You are here.
in the kitchen, a sky
of gray San Jose December;
Imaginary lavender vines
ran next to June birds outside--
the children of cool memories
in the city I love so much, with
the broken sidewalks, old-paned windows,
and the ghosts of all the shops that have now closed.
You only live once.
You are here—you are
all you dreamt you would be.
She could no longer
sleep. We both knew this—we
both remembered the November night
she could not talk to me; the dawn
slowly coming and the birds
outside circling nervously.
That night, she looked at me:
Don't tell me. I said. I know.
She looked again.
She knew, all
was to sleep
at my mother’s house,
to dream by her side,
about birds, to count
Poets and Dreamers
San Clemente, CA
So we travel on earth seeking the terrain of Poetry, walking through wilderness and empty landscape or visiting those ancient sites like Dholavira in far-western Gujarat, or Mykenai in the Greek Peloponnese, or the Arawak campsite on eastern Carriacou in the Grenadine Windward Isles, pursuing that authenticity of experience in a form of antique material reality...
Kevin McGrath 🐚Yoga of Poetry
“Dare to live the life you have dreamed."
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