Out in the garden, the wind was like a dog
Digging in the snow, digging with its nails
To make a bed to lie down in against the freezing air:

And in my exhaustion, my stupefied numb thought
Dug and dug its way down to where I knew
You were--though how could I believe it?

From Slate Magazine

The favored sight is that which disappears.
Wise angels only hum, and hide their wings.
Some toxins will not drain except by tears.
The monkey throws his feces as he swings.
In heroes, it's the flaw that most endears.
We watch the puppet show to spot the strings.
Success occurs when you forget to fail.
Some people seem more naked when they're dressed.
(The garter and bouquet but not the veil.)
He dreams about the smiles she suppressed.
The prisoner doesn't care who makes his bail.
Some stones bleed if resolutely pressed.
The bay leaf is never served with the stew.
I'd never have said this if not to you.

From Slate Magazine

At certain times of day
the lure displays itself
too loudly. Too proud
the triple treble hooks,
too bright the lacquered
shank of snare
flashing through a school
of bass, an invitation
pressed and passed.
At times like this,
it's best to join those
collecting stones
and shells and sticks,
reminders that
we won't survive
even as we resist
the pull to go beyond
where we belong,
like fish.
Flat stones taken home,
no voice or song,
but strong, heavy playing cards
facedown on a shelf
for us to touch in comfort,
not alarm--for that,
we have the phone
whose ring at certain times
means just one thing.

From Three Shards - Slate Magazine

Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueback cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me; so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.

I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.
He didn't fight.
He hadn't fought at all.
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely. Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age.
He was speckled with barnacles,
fine rosettes of lime,
and infested
with tiny white sea-lice,
and underneath two or three
rags of green weed hung down.
While his gills were breathing in
the terrible oxygen
--the frightening gills,
fresh and crisp with blood,
that can cut so badly--
I thought of the coarse white flesh
packed in like feathers,
the big bones and the little bones,
the dramatic reds and blacks
of his shiny entrails,
and the pink swim-bladder
like a big peony.
I looked into his eyes
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed,
the irises backed and packed
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
They shifted a little, but not
to return my stare.
--It was more like the tipping
of an object toward the light.
I admired his sullen face,
the mechanism of his jaw,
and then I saw
that from his lower lip
--if you could call it a lip
grim, wet, and weaponlike,
hung five old pieces of fish-line,
or four and a wire leader
with the swivel still attached,
with all their five big hooks
grown firmly in his mouth.
A green line, frayed at the end
where he broke it, two heavier lines,
and a fine black thread
still crimped from the strain and snap
when it broke and he got away.
Like medals with their ribbons
frayed and wavering,
a five-haired beard of wisdom
trailing from his aching jaw.
I stared and stared
and victory filled up
the little rented boat,
from the pool of bilge
where oil had spread a rainbow
around the rusted engine
to the bailer rusted orange,
the sun-cracked thwarts,
the oarlocks on their strings,
the gunnels--until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
And I let the fish go.

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.

Learn to close softly
The doors to rooms they will not be
Coming back to.

At rest on a stair landing,
They feel it moving
Beneath them now like the deck of a ship,
Though the swell is gentle.

And deep in mirrors
They rediscover
The face of the boy as he practises tying
His father's tie there in secret

And the face of the father,
Still warm with the mystery of lather.
They are more fathers than sons themselves now.
Something is filling them, something

That is like the twilight sound
Of the crickets, immense,
Filling the woods at the foot of the slope
Behind their mortgaged houses.

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

---Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

For Elizabeth Bishop

Nautilus Island's hermit
heiress still lives through winter in her Spartan cottage;
her sheep still graze above the sea.
Her son's a bishop. Her farmer
is first selectman in our village,
she's in her dotage.

Thirsting for
the hierarchic privacy
of Queen Victoria's century,
she buys up all
the eyesores facing her shore,
and lets them fall.

The season's ill --
we've lost our summer millionaire,
who seemed to leap from an L. L. Bean
catalogue. His nine-knot yawl
was auctioned off to lobstermen.
A red fox stain covers Blue Hill.

And now our fairy
decorator brightens his shop for fall,
his fishnet's filled with orange cork,
orange, his cobbler's bench and awl,
there is no money in his work,
he'd rather marry.

One dark night,
my Tudor Ford climbed the hill's skull,
I watched for love-cars. Lights turned down,
they lay together, hull to hull,
where the graveyard shelves on the town. . . .
My mind's not right.

A car radio bleats,
'Love, O careless Love . . . .' I hear
my ill-spirit sob in each blood cell,
as if my hand were at its throat . . . .
I myself am hell,
nobody's here --

only skunks, that search
in the moonlight for a bite to eat.
They march on their soles up Main Street:
white stripes, moonstruck eyes' red fire
under the chalk-dry and spar spire
of the Trinitarian Church.

I stand on top
of our back steps and breathe the rich air --
a mother skunk with her column of kittens swills the garbage pail
She jabs her wedge-head in a cup
of sour cream, drops her ostrich tail,
and will not scare.

My mother taught me underneath a tree,
And, sitting down before the heat of day,
She took me on her lap and kissed me,
And, pointed to the east, began to say:

"Look on the rising sun: there God does live,
And gives His light, and gives His heat away,
And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive
Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.

"And we are put on earth a little space,
That we may learn to bear the beams of love
And these black bodies and this sunburnt face
Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

"For when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear,
The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice,
Saying, 'Come out from the grove, my love and care
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice',"

Thus did my mother say, and kissed me;
And thus I say to little English boy.
When I from black and he from white cloud free,
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy

I'll shade him from the heat till he can bear
To lean in joy upon our Father's knee;
And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him, and he will then love me.

XXXIX. upon Sir Thomas’s ache

time bites at fingertips rough bits of memories
on a dull half-night of wind; none believes
it will spit them out again or leave the skin
as white as it came: its backside is black
its street-corner hiss the last word you hear

black moths extinguish themselves in west-facing fires
and still heat-quivering they’re welcome across the sky

at the bell tower the gear teeth notch up and down,
suddenly get stuck in a fist of sparks from a last cold hiccup,
its stiff belt gets time to stop before the old day’s hours
have all arrived and this is the way the world ends
not with a whimper but with a toothache (*)

(*) « [...] This is the way the world ends / Not with a bang but a whimper. » in Hollow men, T. S. Eliot

XXXVIII. the locked room

sit on the far hedge of time
untie the clock’s hands and stay
before its figures fine, so fine
that fade: all are misplaced,
its extraordinary beats go back and forth,
unngathered, in a chaos of days,
shoe-taps dwindling along empty passages
when none is at home
and the locked room only
keeps its place

XXXVII. the matter of facts

matter does not end where it ends
where the words prepared for it
cease to signify, both true and false,
low-voiced, they do not wish to be
told again, collect new meanings;

worn enough they fall through
the silence back from the zoo
of quarks, the maze of strings
and branes, don’t murmur down
the eleven wires of spacetime

you made much of its names
a fully sequenced genome
duplicated and acquired
with some trust as you speak

far long before, you slowly get short
of impressions, the gauge of eyes
and fingers fails on the hedge
of some too small thing to seize
a too short movement of the joint

get at night a glimpse of stars
on the frosty windscreen as you run
across black swarms of insects;
when their fluorescent bulb is split
it reveals an inner night of stars

many clusters of gas and light
spin clockwise, counter-clockwise
and the function is still unknown
and how they work they don’t see
they fall upside down and reverse
the blow of gravity

And torture me?

Why do you steal all my thoughts?

Why is each moment so painful

And difficult to live out?

Why doesn't the time pass by?

Why is the morning so moody?

And the evening colourless?

Why are the days so gloomy?

Why am I looking so silent

And helpless?

Why am I feeling alone?

Why is there so much things

To worry about?

Why am I still not worried?

Why do my memories deceive me?

Why do I still

Remember your face?

Why do my eyes hide my emotions?

Why am i hiding myself

Inside my emotions?

Why am I asking these questions?

What am I still waiting for???

XXXVI. atom hearted watch

however wide you can dilate your eyes
you won’t reveal its work, your atom
hearted watch under control: they fail
on complicate designs, where hidden
flocks of particles, hydrogen gas, go
trickling through a 6-in. bulb of quartz
and let some microwave pulses burst
and time and space thus set them up
and sharp and spun around, get minute
attentions, pour through the matter holes

your white wrist a stage of stars that shoot,
you must keep time in time, be that much
more precise and miss not one weakest twist
of leaf in 30 million years you won’t ever see
but up-to-date seasons count one single fall
from trees

I couldn't refresh my thoughts
My thoughts made me restless.

The walls of my mind
Had become so transparent.

Through the nothingness of it
I could see them nearing.

I wished I could hear them
Though I didn't like them.

I was wavering in the wind
Rain started pouring on me.

Swollen became my fingers
My hands started trembling.

I was trying to shout
But my mouth was shut up.

I could see the end of the road
I kept on walking.

I wished I could run;
But my feet were aching.

They came very near to me
I started running.

My eyes became sleepy
I knew the end was near.

I stopped and turned around
I found no one and i was stuck.

My thoughts became so vague.
I stood there - sad and alone.

I still love walking alone.

Falling into the emptiness of my silence,
I yelled to myself.

Through the closing windows
I could see the depth of my fall.

The view was so simple and frightful
Still i managed to breathe somehow.

My soul didn't answer me
Any of the questions i was asked.

I wasn't aware of my mistakes
And I felt so restless and broken.

The pain growing inside me
Made my fall uneasier.

The wind blowing on my face
Made me go insane.

Without knowing the truth,
I searched for my sense.

I was surrounded by questions
I couldn't ever answer for.

They fell onto me like a shower,
I felt my conscience flagging.

Through the mist of midnight,
I could see her hands touching me.

They were soft like a feather
And I craved for an embrace.

I was totally spent
And I could spare not a moment.

I yelled to myself:
"Please leave me alone."

And you can't fight the tears that ain't coming
Or the moment of truth in your lies
When everything feels like the movies
Yeah you bleed just to know you're alive
And I don't want the world to see me
Cause I don't think they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am....

The shadows portrayed
A strange picture of my loneliness;
I was walking in vain
And the wind knew it.

The wind blew on my face.
I didn't care about that
For I was feeling so down
And the wind knew it.

I was trying to draw
A picture of you in my mind
But I couldn't remember your face
Als it has become so wispy.

I tried to recall
Our endless talks
They seemed so far away
And I felt so lost.

I was about to lose my direction
I was about to fall.
The wind didn't know it,
And I felt so happy for that.

Each day was a new day;
Each moment a memory;
Each word was a story;
And each visit a surprise.

Nights didn't fall
Without your call
Days didn't end
Without a kiss.

We didn't just talk;
We talked heart-to-heart
We just walked
Our endless ways.

Even silence was meaningful
And we kept it a secret.
Each quarrel we made
Brought us more together.

We kept a lot unsaid
Thinking we just knew.
We kept our dreams
Far from reality.

I never knew that
Those unsaid words
Meant a lot to us.
And those unseen dreams
Had a lot to say.

Now i know
How to be alone in a crowd.
And how to be alone in life.

Without you to hold my hand,
I feel so stupid.
I'm walking this way alone
Like i'd never been.

I know i have you no more
And you're so far away.
But i wish i could go back in time
And tell you those unsaid things.

One thing i know for sure,
I never really knew your love;
Nor returned a bit of it.
I was good for nothing.

But i promise you,
If i ever get a chance
I'll show you the depth of my love,
Which i never knew by myself

Until that day,
My days are tiring
And my nights so dreamless.

XXXV. some more waste quatrains

come into this maze of beech and hazel
where two most famous lovers kissed
and streets run through a true drain of hell,
now the white line erased, two lanes in one

the showers of rain wash down and fill
pits and ruts, the shelters for dead grubs
and leaves and all lilacs shiver, all crocuses
drown, bluish shadows on the surface squat

cats from empty kitchens cry before dry plates
they won’t get up the trees tonight and scratch
on barks and panes or pad along the blocks
in search of lumps of food in open cans

the cars parked tick over long after dusk
each one lined up in its own blue marked gap
like fat spiders weaving slaver, safely stuck
in dark roof holes where nothing else grows

two sexless statues on the churchyard spit
on marble slabs by turns, a pair of passer-bys
does not dare one kiss: not such uncommon
worry to negotiate long terms with love

You can read my all bakwasiaat on my new link now . I 'm pretty sure that you 'll not leave me alone there :) I'll  keep this blog active too but you can also catch me there on www.nayni.com :)

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Keep Smiling  with me :) 

Along with my soul -
They will be with me,
Till my last sleep.
When you wouldn't say -
"Wake up".

Let me sleep.
For a while -
If you can,
Wherever you are,
Close your eyes too,
And please share,
Along with me -
The eternal dreams.

----------------

(The post image belongs to: http://www.monicagiglio.com)

I guess, die another day
I guess, die another day
I guess, die another day
I guess, die another day

I guess I'll die another day
(Another day)
I guess I'll die another day
(Another day)
I guess I'll die another day
(Another day)
I guess I'll die another day

Sigmund Freud
Analyze this
Analyze this
Analyze this

I'm gonna break the cycle
I'm gonna shake up the system
I'm gonna destroy my ego
I'm gonna close my body now

Uh, uh

I think I'll find another way
There's so much more to know
I guess I'll die another day
It's not my time to go

For every sin, I'll have to pay
I've come to work, I've come to play
I think I'll find another way
It's not my time to go

I'm gonna avoid the cliche
I'm gonna suspend my senses
I'm gonna delay my pleasure
I'm gonna close my body now

I guess, die another day
I guess I'll die another day
I guess, die another day
I guess I'll die another day

I think I'll find another way
There's so much more to know
I guess I'll die another day
It's not my time to go

Uh, uh

I guess, die another day
I guess I'll die another day
I guess, die another day
I guess I'll die another day

Another day