God is an Acquaintance from Student Days
A young poet
The poet saddens
because his poem
lacks a title.
"Look at me", I pointed,
"I am encumbered with titles
but the text is blurred,
my pain grows wild
and I can't catch up with the laughter
rolling within me.
Obviously sometimes a title
is a kind of medal awarded
before the smell in the battlefield has withered
and the outcome of the campaign
is not yet known.
One can do without a title".
Say You're an Ape
The ape seems a deer to his mother
(An Arab proverb)
Say you're an ape.
Climbing a trunk
brings no happiness
and jumping from branch to branch
is joyless.
It's a way of life.
Say you're an ape.
Delousing is an acceptable
courtship,
and hairy females get you off.
The night pales at your gaze
and the lion's roar dissolves
into sweetened quiet.
Say you're a poet ape.
Thanks to a rare sense of hearing
you hear the stars
bargaining their position in heavens.
Attentive to a ripening egg
and to the fetus' swearing at the end of pregnancy
your ears embrace the stamen's beat.
The rustle of your fellow apes' sex life
rhymes with the trickling of the stream,
unfurled like a hand.
Say you're an ape
and one morning your palm is smooth.
You cannot climb trunks
even though it's a way of life
and you cannot write poetry.
Your mate's hand slips
through your fingers.
You wound your palm to roughen it
and rhyme notes into it
only to discover that your foot
has lost its lines
and next to the pupil
a moon has settled, mocking.
In the Heart of every Poet
"In the heart of every cat
Lives a lion"
(a boy)
To a poetess
Sadness is wild in you
and your poems are stains of loneliness
into which you dove
and returned dripping with poetry.
Days sweep dead sparkles from your eyes
and in the act of love you satisfy your desire
like breastfeeding a child,
patient, involved,
knowing evening has come
or morning
that it's time to continue
worshipping Poetry.
A letter to a literary figure or
Memories from Café Roval
When I was among your boys
always on your own,
always by your own,
you used to count us:
So and so many boys times two eyes,
so and so many girls times two buttocks.
The same stories always floating on your soup,
always the same soup.
Slowly I sipped my Cinnamon tea
verifying that it is neither sweet nor salty,
ensuring that I am not.
Cinnamon trunks floated on my tea
to build a barge
and sail
away.
Poetry,
foam on waves,
without which the sea is but a mirror
to the bareness of the sky.
In Wonderland
Here I am
gnawing
legs of things,
standing on top of metaphors
to reach myself.
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