“I have only one thing to do and that’s
To be the wave that I am and then
Sink back into the ocean…”

Stealing lyrics I cannot write,
Lyrics that wrote my soul,
Writing words that have no value,
Except filling that Postmodern hole.

Wishing that I had that voice,
which like the waves on rock,
crash and haunt the body
with goosebumps of shock.

(a poem incomplete, inspired by the title song of The Affair, performed by Fiona Apple)

The Princess and the Pea

Between two good songs
When the black sheep of the playlist
Starts bleating its ugly sound,
One begins to feel
All the tiny creases
And uneven bumps
In the bedsheet
And mattress underneath.
The nightly pain and sorrows
Turn to bruises and burns.
Sandwiched by a lowly
Earthy bodily ache
And a higher
Soulful mental debate,
The princess still feels the pinch
of the pea particularly.

The worms come out tonight

The worms come out at night,
Seeking release from the dark wombs of the earth.
Desire brings them out,
Desire, they themselves are.

The comfort of the dark starry sky
echoes the hugging comfort of the soil
Both places are untamed expanses
Where Desire roams free embedded.

As Desire turns to lust,
the worms begin to rust,
before they reach their graves,
in the light of dawn’s haze.

Desire dies tonight.
Again as it has always been.
Pent up or released,
Desire turned to dust.

Poem: Under One Small Star

My apologies to chance for calling it necessity.
My apologies to necessity if I’m mistaken, after all.
Please, don’t be angry, happiness, that I take you as my due.
May my dead be patient with the way my memories fade.
My apologies to time for all the world I overlook each second.
My apologies to past loves for thinking that the latest is the first.
Forgive me, distant wars, for bringing flowers home.
Forgive me, open wounds, for pricking my finger.
I apologize for my record of minuets to those who cry from the depths.
I apologize to those who wait in railway stations for being asleep today at five a.m.
Pardon me, hounded hope, for laughing from time to time.
Pardon me, deserts, that I don’t rush to you bearing a spoonful of water.
And you, falcon, unchanging year after year, always in the same cage,
your gaze always fixed on the same point in space,
forgive me, even if it turns out you were stuffed.
My apologies to the felled tree for the table’s four legs.
My apologies to great questions for small answers.
Truth, please don’t pay me much attention.
Dignity, please be magnanimous.
Bear with me, O mystery of existence, as I pluck the occasional thread from your train.
Soul, don’t take offense that I’ve only got you now and then.
My apologies to everything that I can’t be everywhere at once.
My apologies to everyone that I can’t be each woman and each man.
I know I won’t be justified as long as I live,
since I myself stand in my own way.
Don’t bear me ill will, speech, that I borrow weighty words,
then labor heavily so that they may seem light.

~Wislawa Szymborska