This poem is from "Part One: Loose Feathers" of my book, IMPASSE. Anyway, this poem is reposted, because chasingtheday and Angela had done fine excercises in malice and misunderstanding on the place for comments. I hope nobody would follow their examp
1.
Before the whitewash of light against the dark,
a few hours spent musing on the city
where hearts sell cheap as things in a hawker's mart;
yet no more being a scoundrel in the attic
but a pilgrim out to perform stations of anarchy;
casually, I look around:
dense winter fog clearing
faint streaks of sunlight coming through leaves
birds twittering
a dog still lying curled on the pavement
taking on a challenge of sleeping long through the day
the hustle of street cars sweeping
past whores that relax
past beggars that have cold days ahead of them
with no warm clothes on
oh! all the way back to find traffic busy again.
Every morning after my walk in the streets
I plod my dull way back home.
2.
Casually, I look around
& find myself spreading bubbles of ache
& Time replete with stories of wreckage.
A double-born kid that I am is about to die.
Willie's right: Time's out of joint.
Who cares of the dead talking about it, anyway?
(A few feted agents refer to Time
as a thing to be spent in a happy rush
as a busy man spends weekends.)
The insular poet in me falls back on Time
whose idiolect's hard to interpret.
Damn you, I'm optimist about anarchy's fate.
3.
In retrospect I find
my hours so dull as should not have been.
Oh! my hours spent musing in the attic
and spent walking beside misery scenes.
All my censored visions pile up in an ashpit;
'Sounds reasonable' says a sympathizer.
No eye-balls shine as floodlights,
only fossiled ones to be in a museum showcase.
What will I do with reality's burning ice, Telmedear?
Hesitations to jump into the world lit by the mellow sun,
hesitations which aren't like
those of a dolphin leaping out of water.
Oh! my hours which the brand cheap
professionals of anarchy don't prefer,
my hours which none lets stand firm against all odds.
Don't you think it's funny to fall back again
on dreaming of what won't be?
Queer imaginations during morning walks!
What will be of my heart, the all-time guardian
laid bare to the bush attack of needles?
Which will be the last hour of my suffering?
Poetry by Sofiul Azam
Read 648 times
Written on 2005-10-24 at 16:34
Tags Anxiety
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Great Anarch, Tread
(for Kaiser Haq)1.
Before the whitewash of light against the dark,
a few hours spent musing on the city
where hearts sell cheap as things in a hawker's mart;
yet no more being a scoundrel in the attic
but a pilgrim out to perform stations of anarchy;
casually, I look around:
dense winter fog clearing
faint streaks of sunlight coming through leaves
birds twittering
a dog still lying curled on the pavement
taking on a challenge of sleeping long through the day
the hustle of street cars sweeping
past whores that relax
past beggars that have cold days ahead of them
with no warm clothes on
oh! all the way back to find traffic busy again.
Every morning after my walk in the streets
I plod my dull way back home.
2.
Casually, I look around
& find myself spreading bubbles of ache
& Time replete with stories of wreckage.
A double-born kid that I am is about to die.
Willie's right: Time's out of joint.
Who cares of the dead talking about it, anyway?
(A few feted agents refer to Time
as a thing to be spent in a happy rush
as a busy man spends weekends.)
The insular poet in me falls back on Time
whose idiolect's hard to interpret.
Damn you, I'm optimist about anarchy's fate.
3.
In retrospect I find
my hours so dull as should not have been.
Oh! my hours spent musing in the attic
and spent walking beside misery scenes.
All my censored visions pile up in an ashpit;
'Sounds reasonable' says a sympathizer.
No eye-balls shine as floodlights,
only fossiled ones to be in a museum showcase.
What will I do with reality's burning ice, Telmedear?
Hesitations to jump into the world lit by the mellow sun,
hesitations which aren't like
those of a dolphin leaping out of water.
Oh! my hours which the brand cheap
professionals of anarchy don't prefer,
my hours which none lets stand firm against all odds.
Don't you think it's funny to fall back again
on dreaming of what won't be?
Queer imaginations during morning walks!
What will be of my heart, the all-time guardian
laid bare to the bush attack of needles?
Which will be the last hour of my suffering?
Poetry by Sofiul Azam
Read 648 times
Written on 2005-10-24 at 16:34
Tags Anxiety
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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