Poems Travelling Like Avalanches

I’ll Go Wandering

 

Upon every step I make

A new deity is conceived.

A myriad of voices echo in my head

Competing for naming rights:

Shinto, Hermes, Heimdall,

Jupiter, Tiamat and Viracocha.

 

But I refuse them all and decide

Upon my own title:     Memory.

 

So long as Memory is my kin and muse

Travel shall be my only paradise.

 

 

 

As The Stars Go By

 

There is nothing to life

But to live it.

Generations have come and gone,

As plentiful as the constellations,

All of them dying like colonised nations

Fighting for the war of their oppressors.

Do not be like them.

Look up, instead, like a howling wolf

That calls out to his kin,

Into the bright night sky and listen

To the music of the spheres,

Such splendid silence,

It fills your heart, doesn’t it,

Don’t be afraid.

 

There may be emptiness up above,

A divinely beautiful emptiness

Poets like myself have long tried to capture;

But they, and I, have wasted our time

Eulogising loneliness –

We have chained ourselves

In the garbage-heap of solitude

For the sake of poisoned verse.

 

We have failed to see

What it was that the wolves howl for.

What you should howl for.

Though there is great poetry

Embedded in those maddening howls,

True poetry lies in the longing

Of the howls;

A longing for a reply,

A motherly response

A brotherly howl back.

A howl that reaches into the emptiness

And defiantly tells it:

“I reject you.”

 

To deny beauty for the sake

Of defying loneliness.

Can you do that,

Even, when I’m gone?

 

 

Avalanche

 

When you go and become a part of history,

You become history. Our existence is the hydra’s head

Waiting to regrow after the passing of desperate years.

We know the gods so well because we have spent histories

Trying to become them. We look to the wilderness

So black and diamantine, and project our wills

Into those obscure depths and heights.

In doing so we create myths to combat history,

Myths that would have us imagine

We can stem the flow of history.

 

Gods and legends and fantasies

That carry on the fight in our stead,

A fight we are too mortal and finite to ever win.

 

But it is a fight that we can win

Because

We are mortal and finite.

History is us; to hold back

Its time-forged avalanche,

You need only live

And die.

 

 

 

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