American Şukru
for John Vosbikian
On the many roads from Malatya,
To Konya, Harput, Adana,
Your music’s heard
In birds and brooks and breeze,
In rain and thunder
In the creek of trees
The growing wheat whispers your drone
And you,
With the breath of life,
Bleat and wail and mourn
To the eagle and the crane.
You cry sonic tears
That flow into rivers
That make things grow.
You derive
From wood and air
The true meaning of life
Spanning centuries and continents
A meaning that can only be
Heard and felt
Articulated not in words.
Every time you breathe
We die and live
We yearn and love
We lose our minds and
Find our souls.
April 24, 1991
Caracas
—————— • ——————
The Gift of Intuition
(A one third haiku)
You know
I know
You know
July 1991
—————— • ——————
The Gift of Time
I steal time
In minutes,
Hours, seconds,
Days, months, years.
I steal it from me,
From you, my love.
I steal time for me
To wander off and dream.
I lie for time, my mistress,
Then cheat on her.
I scurry and scrounge
While she indifferently
Acclerates.
I steal time,
I steal yours.
I swill it,
Precious hours
Running down
My gluttonous cheeks.
July 1991
—————— • ——————
The Gift of Writer’s Block
That I cannot write is your fault.
Your spirit clogs the pores of my soul.
My addiction, obsession,
Jams the synapses,
Dulls my sensitivity,
Evaporates vocabulary,
Blurs perceptions and
Lures my energy
To the butt of my spine.
I only want to live in your bed
With my hands groping under
Your Freudian slip.
April 24, 1991
Caracas
—————— • ——————
The Gift of Inspiration
I want to run off
And write songs for you
Hidden, cocooned,
Hibernating until
Monarch poems of
Orange and black burst
Forth and dance in
Your sun and die
Before the end of day.
1990
—————— • ——————
The Gift of Left Handed Women
Your boyish femininity
Left me dyslexic
Right in the vertigo
Of your libidinal palindrome.
1990
—————— • ——————
The Gift of Hesitation
I have walked Central Park twice,
Once with you and once alone.
With you,
You talked and showed me the park.
I mumbled and stuttered pleasantries
Over and around the words I really
Wanted to say.
Alone,
I followed our path and said
Everything, eloquently, to a
Phantom you.
Our first long
Lover’s kiss
At the base of
Cleopatra’s needle.
July 1991
—————— • ——————
The Gift of Nourishment
I have digested you
I have heard your musk
And drank you with my eyes.
I have digested you
And infused you in every cell
Orienting my life in
The stream of you.
March 1991
—————— • ——————
The Gift of Dreams
Your apparition
Synchs into my thoughts
And flutters harmonic
With my dream waves.
The collage of all
Kisses are focused,
In transparent writhe,
In detached coital arch,
Sined in genetic code,
Cosined by ancestors.
June 25, 1991
Brussels
—————— • ——————
The Gift of Grace
That ether blowing
Cool springs off the
Massive slopes
Of earth’s lopsided breasts,
That ether breeze
that prolongs my sleep
In fractal puffs
Cradling my soul
Enveloping the pain
Of long centuries.
April 1990
—————— • ——————
The Gift of Addiction to You
I should e-mail you every day but
That would become twice a day and
Then hourly until it would be better if
I just hung out with you all the time.
Such is an addict's lot,
Such is an addict's mesmer,
An addict's tragedy and what
No one but the addict knows
His
one
real
joy
April 17, 1998
—————— • ——————
Your Birthday Poem
It is not possible
To write the poem of you,
Since the you of you
Permeates the me of me
Creating the
Coital spider of us
It is not possible
To write the poem of you,
I am too consumed
Scribbling with
My penal pen filled
With invisible ink
In the velvety vaginal
Book of you
It is not possible
To write the poem of you,
Since I get lost in the
Thought, dream, psychosis
In the reverie, image, reflection
Of loving you
It is not possible
To write the poem of you,
For no poet can capture
That which has no bounds
No definition, no limits
In the core of the brain
Base of the spine
Ventricular aortic joy
Of loving you
It is not possible
To write the poem of you,
As the words
Might spontaneously
Combust these pages
It is not possible
To write the poem of you,
Because brain functions
Cease at these
Emotional depths
It is not possible
To write the poem of you,
As it would be a waste of time
Since no one else would
Ever, no how, know way
In Heaven or hell or
Other places, possibly
Conceive of this level of passion,
From the likes of us
It is not possible
To write the poem of you,
Because good poems
Demand the loss,
Absence, erosion,
Deterioration and general
Decay of love
August 14, 2001
Miami
—————— • ——————
Poems from my Caran D’ache
In touch with
The Tao of now
Raises the soul
From the tar pit
Of the mind allowing
Poems to flow
From the whole me
Immediate, permanent
There are no errors
There can be no revisions
Caran poems d’ached
Off in real time.
February 15, 2002
Mexico City
—————— • ——————
Sweet Breath
It was only chewing gum
Spearmint
That scented your breath
Anoukh
Intoxicating my soul
Hierbabuena
It was only chewing gum
Rahan
It was only spearmint
Naneh
It was only love
It was and will be
February 19, 2002
Mexico City
—————— • ——————
Our Isle
Our Isle
not of Solitude but
a bountiful place
where we live
off the food of Love
the wine of passion
the fruit of intensity
Our Isle
of anticipation and fulfillment
of yearning and contentment
Oscintilating
Like waves, over and over
Like the tide, deeper and profound
There is no map
We washed up on shore
Embraced, entwined
Primordial
Eternal
Timeless
on our isle.
February 14, 2002
—————— • ——————
Question
Must all poems
Be profound, revealing
The mysteries of life
The structure of the universe
The wisdom of the ages
Inspired by the
Breath of God and
The soul of life?
March 5, 2002
—————— • ——————
Must poems be clear, to all who read?
Should everyone who reads understand?
Or can they be just for my own need
To trace my life, just for me and
Not caring if anyone else ever reads them
The most egocentric writing of all
My memory book, documenting my crawl
Through this lifetime of trials and joy
Convincing myself I am still the same boy
January 26, 2004
—————— • ——————
exiled...
in a darien desolation,
a noroton nether land
the train rumbles
to some unknown
some ominous dawn
the train rumbles forth
in a flat descent
to some unknown
some ominous dark
foreboding town
the train trundles forth
alone, exiled
knowing naught
not knowing if
there is any return
to the green farm
the train rumbles forth
February 12, 2004
