because the existential subtraction of the past year laid bare the excesses of my carefully contrived alignments,
because the new minimalist right angles of being are putting to shame the cursive blooms of February after a summer, a monsoon, a winter, of letting go,
because so much was so unnecessary, so exhausting, so mindless that turning away was turning inward, hearing myself, allowing the words to come when they were ready — like rain, like a storm, like the night — filling the spaces between here and sky, between me and myself, becoming a bridge that leads to another chance,
because when this stillness has passed, the chaos will come rushing back but there will be a memory of this time when so much nothing happened that it was still a little something,
because sometimes, something is more than enough
then the sky looked down
at the sea, and asked—
what is that strange colour?
What one poet learnt from 2020:
Preview DRAFT 1.x
- It is never too early for an outro.
- Rain is louder than thoughts, but only in the first
four three minutes. Our Your shadow is still stuck to my wall, where it was cast, without care, that last weekend before the first lockdown.
- At some point, I turned this year into a convenient excuse.
Like you did.
- Probability is inversely proportionate to the length of silence. Words however cannot change the outcome.
- If so much pain seems senseless, a
little little happiness, by extension, is senseless too.
- Every existential equation is solved in the songs the birds made up when humans emptied the streets.
- The thing is, phone calls end.
Like life. Like time.
- It doesn’t take that long for “every day felt like a year” to become “a year that felt like a day”. (It takes a day. Or a year.)
- Isolation is terrifying without a secret preoccupation. (Unless you are secretly preoccupied with the terrors of isolation, in which case the preoccupation is terrifyingly isolating.) (Why secret?)
- Being a poet during a pandemic is a test of brevity. How best can the endless void, the featureless grey wrapped sky, the road that bends into the horizon, the distance that is measured in everything other than distance — how best can the infinite be compressed into neat lines that in the seventh reading still make
- Size has swapped meaning. Big has turned small. Little is too much. Consider. The Universe. One word. Forever. Now.
- Mostly, just #11.
- Truly, just #4. But concise is always a verse, thirteen verses too long.
Come quickly then, familiar stranger, familiar
touch, familiar taste — love waits to flower in
the cold sun of November. We will moult the
skins of the months of separation and find that
our snake souls are chameleons: changing colour
to match the unslept sheets. Nothing learnt,
nothing gained in the static months, racing into
familiar fields to reap what we never thought to
sow. How long, how long before we remember
these times of distance again, fondly, like a
memory, like an ache, like a fervent prayer?
Winter will come, with its lantern light and
unfeeling skies, winter will come like a train
on a moonless night, as if nothing ever happened.