Poems by samvak
Cutting to Existence
My little brother cuts himself into existence.
With razor tongue I try to shave his pain,
he wouldn't listen.
His ears are woollen screams, the wrath
of heartbeats breaking to the surface.
His own Red Art.
When he cups his bleeding hands
the sea of our childhood
wells in my eyes
wells in his veins
like common salt.
Tableaux (on Van Gogh)
Listening to a scarlet sink, detached
an ear, still glistening wax,
in bloody conch.
The gaping flesh.
Wild scattered eyes
fiercing the mirror.
Light ricochets from trembling blade
(it's gaslight evening and the breeze ...)
Behind his stooping shoulders,
a painted room ablaze
the dripping composition of his blood.
The winding crowd
inflates the curtains inwards,
sails of a flying Dutchman.
A Hundred Children
Tell me about your sunshine
and the sounds of coffee
and of barefeet pounding the earthen floor
the creaking trees
and the skinned memory of hugs
and you received.
Sit down, yes, here,
the intermittent sobbing
of the shades
slit by your golden face.
Now listen to the hundred children
that are your womb.
I am among them.
When you wake the morning
When you wake the morning
red headed children shimmer in your eyes.
The veinous map
of sun drenched eyelids
Your muscles ripple.
Scared animals burrow
under your dewey skin.
Frozen light sculptures
where wrinkles dwell.
in thick-maned tapestry.
Your lips depart in scarlet,
flesh to withering flesh,
and breath in curved tranquility
escapes the flaring nostrils.
Your warmth invades my sweat,
your lips leave skin regards
on my humidity.
Prague at Dusk
Prague lays over its inhabitants in shades of grey. Oppressively close
the surface, some of us duck, others simply walk carefully, our shoulders
stooped, trying to avoid the monochrome rainbow at the end of the hesitant
rain. Prague rains itself on us, impaled on one hundreds towers, on
thousand immolated golden domes. We pretend not to see it bleeding to
river. We just cross each other in ornate street corners, from behind
exquisite palaces. We don't shake heads politely anymore. We are not
whether they will stay connected if we do.
It is in such times that I remember an especially sad song, Arabic
interlaced with Jewish wailing. Wall after wall, turret after turret,
re-visit my homeland. It is there, in that city, which is not Arab,
Jewish, not entirely modern, nor decidedly antique that I met her.
And the pain was strong.
Biographical sketch: A columnist and author of short fiction
Selected Poems by Sylvia Plath (ed. Ted Hughes)
Reason: This is poetry of the healing and abuse of everyday
Powerful proof that the mundane aspects of life are enough to traumatize.
Plath's Selected Poems
Recommendations for writers:
The music of the words and the resonance it must provoke - the
tintinnabulation of the reader, as it were.