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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
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Green Peas at Stake #542890 added October 19, 2007 at 4:04pm
Restrictions: None
Poems from a Sleepless Night
I.
All those I loved didn't really exist,
for their existence
was only a hope
like the ghost of a cloud
that didn't rain
but scattered to evaporate.
Such love no one ever witnessed
with a love poem
and a song
that weren't there.
II.
When the wheel of fate
disperses its colors into the black-hole night,
all my roads lead to your ocean
whoever I love, he becomes you,
and I call him with your name
for I was made for impossible loves
for I neither learned how to embrace you nor to forget you.
for I am stuck at the spot where the sun sets.
III.
Autumn, with warm palms
and arrowlike gaze,
smokes off the evenings
on purple hills,
as I hear your voice
from far away.
Pity, I lack the passport
and the roadmap
to come to you,
but separation, too,
belongs inside
my loving.
If dawn pulsed
in colors
with large child eyes
and if I could
only hold
your hands,
I could die
lacking
nothing.
IV.
When the guitar sings
time gets torn away
and coral-centered cigarettes
tell many a tale
to make you wonder
"Where did youth go?"
V.
With the moaning of
the song inside the disc,
with the poetry
spilling from your memory,
I blend with the dark
If you would stop
blocking my view,
I could see the world
and I would know
where I am.
VI.
You have changed too much.
I couldn't recognize who you are
and I cannot remember
if you preferred tea
or coffee.
white bread or rye,
or if you had brown hair
or white
like right now.
When you laughed
the moon used to rise
on my nights,
but now I am used to
the dark.
Is it you who changed
or could it be me?
VII.
Out of nothing,
your eyelashes carry
dew drops.
Is it the wind or the dust
attacking like the enemy
abruptly after an entrapment
when forgiving
quiets the din
inside my throat?
VIII.
To leap away
from grief's chasm,
you fall
from one abyss
into another.
All because
you loved
in a different way than
other lovers.
IX.
Who is he who rings my bell
I open the door and he is not there
He is never there.
Surely, I heard the ring
Maybe it is I
who is at my door.
X.
Your heart in thousand shards,
you go as you came.
The roads are vagrant;
you are vagrant.
On the roadside,
people trade love and hassle,
poverty on the right,
death on the left.
This city, the king
of all vagabonds,
can find no balm
for wounds.
XI.
I am a wall;
I never saw the sun.
My wounds do not display glory
but pain
for I embrace
all that was abandoned,
and in front of me,
they shot the condemned
as I stood standing
when the dead fell.
But then,
the clouds spit on my face,
although I was dead tired
and turned red
in bloody shame.
X.
Mother earth, a child
with giant fists,
frees from chains,
to leave my lap
like an overused bed,
crumpled, dirty,
but now,
I can fold myself up
and soar to the skies.
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© Copyright 2007 Joy (UN: joycag at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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