Medium 9781782205319

Blood and Ink

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A shimmering blend of good-hearted joy and mesmerizing surrealism, the poems in this collection reflect a deeply and authentically lived life. The images and metaphors used by the author are wide-ranging and cosmopolitan. At one moment, he speaks of flying dogs, four-year-old grandmothers, Mexico, Hindu gods, and Carmelite nuns. At another, he invokes Persian mysticism, the nights of London and Amsterdam, Nazim Hikmat, trees that want to be near a river, the rising mound of caramel under a silk blouse, and his own death exploding in thousand fragments of toothless remorse. This is heady stuff, suffused with abandon and pure delight.

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I love trees that are neither young nor old.

Trees that are taken seriously by animals.

Trees soaked in rain.

Trees that lack cleverness, fall asleep easily.

Trees that bear fruits liked by women.

Trees seen in dreams.

Trees that want to be near a river.

I love all such trees and I love ice cream.

Walk gingerly from now onwards.

The squirming dollop of love on an outstretched palm
slips, slides, slithers,
tends to spill.

Sharpen your knife.

Incise the thin skin of my temperament.

Cut through my rib cage.

Take out the ravaged heart that keeps my foolish hopes alive.

Block the vessels in which poetry of my ancestors flows.

Remove my intestines too, so that gut feelings lead me astray
no more.

Do not fret that I might not survive the surgery.

Do not worry that you might cause insufferable damage
since far worse has been sent my way
by my kin and by passing time.

 

II

ePub

II

I want a giraffe with a goat's neck,

and a dog that flies in the air.

A mountain of water,

and a lake filled with iron.

A soundless song,

and a whistling grave.

A tree that walks,

and a train that goes nowhere.

A four-year-old grandmother,

and a twelve-feet-tall son.

Only having all this can

stop me from falling in love with you.

Bourbon of hope

flows in veins.

Rainy day in Paris

holds us in its glove.

Let us quit our regular jobs,

and go work in a circus.

You glide from one to the other trapeze

of difficult realities.

I tame the lions and tigers of my inconsolable hunger.

You ride on a gigantic plastic ball,

flirt with the red-nosed clowns.

I make friends with midgets and monkeys.

At night

we sleep in the trailer parked outside the tent.

Make elephant babies in our dreams.

Doctors from the illuminated continent declare that there are
five senses.

 

III

ePub

III

Upon seeing the photograph of the 3-year-8-months-old Arthur Pierce

The boy is young

but his eyes leap out of him like firm, big hands of a grown
up man.

Grab this fast moving ball, take hold of that crooked handle
of a door.

Check the tear in the leather seat of the bus.

Covet the more robust apple his brother has, the bigger glass
of milk.

Know all the light bulbs in the house by their names.

His eyes do not notice yet
the rising mound of caramel under a silk blouse.

This ankle. The curve of that waist.

The bright red travel of a moan from the bedroom to the
Register of Sweet Memories.

His eyes do not notice yet

the sad bottle of gin sitting on his grandfather's desk.

A wife pregnant with twins, the few crumpled bank notes in
his pocket.

A row of familiar graves.

The mute typewriter, beseeching like a puppy.

Not yet. But one day, his eyes will see all this and more.

 

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