Close, Closer

pull it close, closer,
read in the pockets of its moulted skin,
this poem is not the blistered red
that chaffs your hate of hatred,
not the half sewn gut of every war
that rages against your outrage,
not a word here is the bruised head
of a hammer on unflat lies,
nor the colour of your neighbours chin
that floats in the salt of your eyes,
no punctuation here comforts a child
without home, without dream, without price;
bring it close, closer,
this poem is like air, like water, like sky,
without the burden of voices,
without the weight of tears,
it is not a soul looking for a body
so it may live again,
it is not a song searching for a melody
so it may speak again,
inhale it and feel its breath
burn with yours in your lungs,
put your hand through its lines
and feel the wetness of what was old spring rain,
and someday if you find yourself
dancing on its shoes like a laughing child,
or taut in its arms like a naked lover
asking to be unravelled in the night,
know it then, know it well,
know it as the rainbow
that braids the broken light,
there for a moment,
there like a kiss,
there, soft, softer,
then gone
before you can remember to say
its name.

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38 thoughts on “Close, Closer

    1. No, no, no…what will we do without believers and their voices. I am so hoping you will publish a book of your poems soon… I do believe many more people need to read them. Also to inspire us poets of the “sterile word play” variety. πŸ™‚ Discard? No way, sir!!

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      1. πŸ™‚ πŸ™‚ the poems are already out there; if getting them published lends credence (on top of obvious visibility gain), then to quote Jaalib:
        iss khulay jhooT ko, zehn ki looT ko / maiN naheeN maanta, maiN naheeN jaanta

        πŸ™‚

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  1. This closer, it seems apparent that nothing weighs against the light of a moment in unbridled silence. There is pain, there is war, there is language and speech. But we often miss out on this poem, this very poem reminiscent of it all; joy de vivre and the numbing pain of existence.
    So shall be remembered before taking its name.

    Beautiful writing. πŸ™‚

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  2. know it then, know it well,
    know it as the rainbow
    that braids the broken light,
    there for a moment,
    there like a kiss,
    there, soft, softer,
    then gone
    before you can remember to say
    its name.

    Beautifully hypnotic! ❀️

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  3. this poem is like air, like water, like sky,
    without the burden of voices,
    without the weight of tears,

    a poem can free us from the chains that hold us…words are a release of thoughts and emotions

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  4. The progression of very brutal imagery, to this soft dream like state of euphoria is quite stunning. Part of me wants to simply enjoy the soothing and pleasant imagery, another part of me wonders if I am accepting the shift too readily.

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    1. All poems perhaps don’t want to be reformers.. some are just soap bubbles making rainbows in the light..I think both have their place.. in the real and the surreal. Thanks so much Rommy.

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  5. “put your hand through its lines”
    Close, closer, moisture of real life–I think these “unintended” experienced from a distance parent me, shape me even as something larger holds me safe. And “. . . as the rainbow
    that braids the broken light . . .” it feels to me like the mystical awakenings inside an otherwise ordinary life.

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  6. You tell us what the poem is, and what it isn’t, and then you leave to us to find out for ourselves just exactly what it is…or isn’t! πŸ˜‰

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