What is Poetry? Is it a dying
Black ink on amber colored paper?
Or sex at seven pm?
Please, let me know.
I have prayed, immersed myself in meditation,
Sought for answers, writing furiously,
Checked my e-mails, had breakfast,…
My son and I are going to the purple mountain
To listen to the song thrush and the nightingale
And move nearby the dust among the ruins
Like swirling snakes in the yellow sand.
Briskly broom away the clouds
that suffocate the view.
A starry night has stories to fish for,
rains of memories to enter the fire
that wildly sings.
My woolen doll… so long ago… that little man,
My grandma made… when did I outgrow …
Vincent, do you know?
(His picture’s on my bedside table)
Why do you look at me like that?
Boiled egg! Lightbulb! Rhododendron!
I remember sitting as a boy, ‘t was an early Saturday morning,
In the spacious seat of my dad’s white company car,
A bit drowsy, carsick and uncomfortable.
But, I felt honored like a little prince.
He gave me sandwiches and butter cakes.
While managing the wheel he redressed my life.
We sat there side by side rather quietly,
mostly silenced by ourselves.
My papa has never been a talker,
And the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
But, unlike him, I love poetry.
So, let me softly hand you the poems I’ve made
Like the wind and the creatures that circulate
The pollen of sweet and violated flowers.
Just like that.