Saturday, July 31, 2010
Friday, July 30, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
फर्स्ट poem
First Poem
This is the first page of poems that have yet to be written, but I will
not think about it. It is like crossing the plateau of Alentejo I can see
the tarmac road miles ahead of me stretching into infinity and I know
will not get there alive I must stop before falling off a cliff of oblivion.
Writing is like arithmetic instead of digits it is about putting words
together hoping they add up, harmonize. And two and two is not
four. I’m a composer of silent instruments and I try to tell you what
I hear, but how can I do that without a blaring trumpets to catch your
attention? I can only grasp what is near to me, I know what Is near
to me is universal. Life is not complicated, it is about being loved.
This is the first page of poems that have yet to be written, but I will
not think about it. It is like crossing the plateau of Alentejo I can see
the tarmac road miles ahead of me stretching into infinity and I know
will not get there alive I must stop before falling off a cliff of oblivion.
Writing is like arithmetic instead of digits it is about putting words
together hoping they add up, harmonize. And two and two is not
four. I’m a composer of silent instruments and I try to tell you what
I hear, but how can I do that without a blaring trumpets to catch your
attention? I can only grasp what is near to me, I know what Is near
to me is universal. Life is not complicated, it is about being loved.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
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