Ya'aburnee (Arabic): "You bury me." It's a declaration of one's hope that they'll die before another person, because of how difficult it would be to live without them.
no let me call you sweetheart
no dahil sa yo
no courting you
no guitar strum of my nervous fingers
no new moon chance
no smiling neighbors gathering near
no wavering voice in the first verse
no you standing at the window
laughing softly, shaking your head
whispering to your sister beside you
how you were hoping it would be me
no stopping now, i've already started
no way, it's too late, your smile locks me in
no first kiss at the barrio fiesta
after your parents leave for home
no telling you that i love you like no other
no you teasing i am so old fashioned
living the ancient ways of love songs
no you answering my call of your name
after the winds die, after the waters recede
no finding a note. no finding your body.
no you standing in deep mud, shaking
no you suddenly running toward me
no you whispering to me
how you always pray that you will die
before i die, because the suffering
would be unbearable.
no. i refuse to leave my home.
i want to stay here by the sea
listen to you whisper, bury me
you bury me.
Originally published in Red Wheelbarrow, December 2013.
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...
These are places, strange and vague situations where death is manifold and thoroughly extant to the careful eye. There are women’s bangles made of shell to be picked up from the saline dust or small copper beads and thin chert blades, or tiny obsidian arrow-heads that can be unhidden and disclosed beneath those bloody grey walls about the Lion Gate, or beautiful indented potsherds and ceramic fragments at the waterline where the Atlantic rolls out its long blue visceral waves...
Kevin McGrath 🐚Yoga of Poetry
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