Growing Time…in Words!
The Stolen Branch In the night we shall go into steala flowering branch. We shall climb over the wallin the darkness of the alien garden,two shadows in the shadow. Winter is not yet gone,and the apple tree appearssuddenly changedinto a cascade of fragrant stars. In the night we shall go inup to its trembling firmament,and…
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Completing my formative years here! It’s still unbelievable when I look at the number! I pinch my self, is it true? really? I want to thank you all for providing a continuous flow of views, likes, love, support, follow, comments,… making my journey a wonderful experience. Please let me know what do you think about…
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I remember you as you were that final autumn. You were a gray beret and the whole being at peace. In your eyes the fires of the evening dusk were battling, and the leaves were falling in the waters of your soul. As attached to my arms as a morning glory, Your sad, slow voice…
Read MoreOf the many men who I am, who we are, I can’t find a single; they disappear among my clothes, they’ve left for another city. When everything seems to be set to show me off as intelligent, the fool I always keep hidden takes over all that I say. At other times, I’m asleep among…
Read MoreThe People I recall that man and not two centuries have passed since I saw him, he went neither by horse nor by carriage: purely on foot he outstripped distances, and carried no sword or armour, only nets on his shoulder, axe or hammer or spade, never fighting the rest of his species: his…
Read MoreGranted one poet’s experience with manual metaphysics doesn’t make a poetics; but I’ve pared my nails to the quick to temper my craft and these shabby prescriptions I learned for myself, at first hand, If you find them uncouth for a poet’s vocation, I agree – no apologies needed! I smile toward the future and…
Read MoreWhy such harsh machinery? Why, to write down the stuff and people of everyday, must poems be dressed up in gold, in old and fearful stone? I want verses of felt or feather which scarcely weigh, mild verses with the intimacy of beds where people have loved and dreamed. I want poems stained by hands…
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A certain weariness I don’t want to be tired alone, I want you to grow tired along with me. How can we not be weary of the kind of fine ash which falls on cities in autumn, something which doesn’t quite burn, which collects in jackets and little by little settles, discolouring the heart. I’m…
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The child’s foot is not yet aware it’s a foot, and would like to be a butterfly or an apple. But in time, stones and bits of glass, streets, ladders, and the paths in the rough earth go on teaching the foot that it cannot fly, cannot be a fruit bulging on the branch. Then,…
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Nehal's World 