Poem – Loving You

I don’t care what people say

They keep telling me that I’m just wasting my time

Voices wanting me to break it off

Convincing me to save myself from the hurt

The hurt they think you’re going to put me through

I’m crying inside, breaking down

Because those voices are those of my friends

I can’t let go of you though

Somewhere in my heart

There’s something that doesn’t want to leave you

I’ll let a million tears stream down my face

Before I’ll let myself be forced to calm down

I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing

But I’ll take the risk and go with my heart

Maybe I’m not supposed to, but I can’t help loving you 

Poem – Lost & Confused

I’m so lost right now

So lost in a world that’s so unknown to me

I’m falling from the skies

and don’t know whether to fight for survival or to just keep falling

Seeing darkness ahead I stand in wonder

to move through the shadows or turn back towards the light

I can’t think straight anymore

and I can’t hear what my heart is saying

I try so hard to find my way

But it’s hard when there’s a storm in your path

I can’t sleep because there’s always this dark figure 

laying besides me, 

laughing at my pains

Standing in the pouring rain

I cry till I’m left standing in an ocean of my tears

As I lay on the bare ground

I wish and wait for someone to come find me and help me…

Save me from this dreadful place 

Poem – Three Poems By Heart

I
I can’t find the title

of a memory about you

with a hand torn from darkness

I step on fragments of faces
soft friendly profiles

frozen into a hard contour
circling above my head

empty as a forehead of air

a man’s silhouette of black paper
II
living–despite

living- -against

I reproach myself for the sin of forgetfulness
you left an embrace like a superfluous sweater

a look like a question
our hands won’t transmit the shape of your hands

we squander them touching ordinary things
calm as a mirror

not mildewed with breath

the eyes will send back the question
every day I renew my sight

every day my touch grows

tickled by the proximity of so many things
life bubbles over like blood

Shadows gently melt

let us not allow the dead to be killed–
perhaps a cloud will transmit remembrance–

a worn profile of Roman coins
III
the women on our street

were plain and good

they patiently carried from the markets

bouquets of nourishing vegetables
the children on our street

scourge of cats
the pigeons–
softly gray
a Poet’s statue was in the park

children would roll their hoops

and colorful shouts

birds sat on the Poet’s hand

read his silence
on summer evenings wives

waited patiently for lips

smelling of familiar tobacco
women could not answer

their children: will he return

when the city was setting

they put the fire out with hands

pressing their eyes
the children on our street

had a difficult death

pigeons fell lightly

like shot down air
now the lips of the Poet

form an empty horizon

birds children and wives cannot live

in the city’s funereal shells

in cold eiderdowns of ashes
the city stands over water

smooth as the memory of a mirror

it reflects in the water from the bottom
and flies to a high star

where a distant fire is burning

like a page of the Iliad 

Poem – To My Bones

In my sleep it rips throughmy meagre skin

throws off the red bandage of the flesh

and goes strolling through the room

my monument a little incomplete
one can be prodigal

with tears and blood

what will endure here the longest

must be thoughtfully provided for
better (than with a priest’s dry finger

to the rains which drip from a cloud of sand)

to give one’s monument to the academey
they will prop it up in a glass display case

and in Latin they will pray before

the little altar made from an os frontalis
they will reckon the bones and surfaces

they will not forget not overlook
happily I will give my color of eyes

pattern of nails and curve of eyelids

I the perfectly objective

made from white crystals of anatomy

Poem – Why The Classics

1

In  the fourth book of the Peloponnesian War

Thucydides tells among other things

the story of his unsuccessful expedition

among long speeches of chiefs

battles sieges plague

dense net of intrigues of diplomatic endeavours

the episode is like a pin

in a forest

the Greek colony Amphipolis

fell into the hands of Brasidos

because Thucydides was late with relief

for this he paid his native city

with lifelong exile

exiles of all times

know what price that is

2

generals of the most recent wars

if a similar affair happens to them

whine on their knees before posterity

praise their heroism and innocence

they accuse their subordinates

envious colleagues

unfavourable winds

Thucydides says only

that he had seven ships

it was winter

and he sailed quickly

3

if art for its subject

will have a broken jar

a small broken soul

with a great self-pity

what will remain after us

will it be lovers’ weeping

in a small dirty hotel

when wall-paper dawns