as i had imagined

your face distracted me exactly as i had imagined,
the same languor of your lips,
the beautiful fragility of your fingers,
that mascara
which only looks good on your eyes,
a certain heat on your cheeks
that some would consider sexiness,
and the blissfully, carelessly undone hair,
that shaded all and revealed all,
exactly as I had imagined,
before we met
in crazed times, those times of craze,
even being in your shadow that aroused jealousy,
exactly as I had imagined,
blue smoke like never before,
the blue smoke that rose from your
lips into the depth less depths of being,
like the first blue smoke, the true blue
of being, like the first blue after the first fire,
exactly as I had imagined,
the vacuousness confused for sultriness,
the certain heat in your cheeks,
the magnitude of your gaze,
but mostly your colour, that mascara,
the shade beside your shade,
the fragility of your fingers,
as the blue rose from
your lips,
the smouldering cigarette in your hand,
exactly as i had imagined,
in the crazed hour of departing,
when even one look is too many and one too less,
as one leaves and departs for ever,
shattering one's heart,
in the clear crystal of that blue
smoke,
that colour on your eyes,
that heat on your cheeks,
the magnitude of your seeing,
exactly as I had imagined,
the blue smoke rising from your cigarette,
as one departs,
in the crazed heat of that crazed hour,
hostage for ever
to the handsome velvet of your skin.

Come

come like a dream
on tiptoes
suddenly
come like a sudden shower on a summer afternoon
come at dusk when the sun has to set
come as some faraway bells sound sadly sometimes
outside my window
like the roar of a train at dawn come
like the wind at night
suddenly
come with the incessant tread of hooves
like the violence of violets
come without smile or promises
come with your long hair undone
suddenly
with bare feet with one anklet only
surprise yourself
come once

as the wind beats

Tonight the wind beats relentlessly against the roofs
and on the streets plastic bottles and paper fly aimlessly
as some insomniacs make their way to a bar,
trying in vain to light a cigarette in such wind.
There is no promise or fruit in such pursuit
and the night will turn out to be bare and lonely,
but can it stop those who dislike the loneliness of the midnight hour?
Some of them will want to listen to duets in incomprehensible tongues,
while others will only want to drum their fingers on the bar tables
dispersing in vain the melancholy in their fingers
and some will test the water of promises made.
Altogether it is a bloody business
and bloodier than murder.
The night is silent other than the wind
and winds are seldom silent.
Some walk slowly shielding their cigarettes in their palms
as their shadows flee like frightened ghosts
on the pavements lit by the odd street lamp.
Later, one of them will finally sit at the bar
but still look expectantly at the door,
though convinced that the person with long brown hair will not come.

when we met once

We met by the water line
it was summer, you remember it was warm
a surreal morning, we were surrounded by the noise
of tables and chairs and spoons and cups
and what the hell I thought, reserve isn't everything.
You sat and you had the glint and stone in your eyes
and then the sun fell on your long brown hair
and restored to stone what the rose hides.
You didn't speak and I didn't say a thing
and the coffee got cold and I forgot to light my cigarette.
How are you I asked tamely as you turned to look
at an urchin making a pass at a girl,
just loving isn't enough you said,
one must live and die together, I think now
I should have died then.
You kept playing with a spoon and put it on the table
as our eyes met but what could I say?
That hour fled like a thief into the night
I remember I forgot all I had to say.
The sun shone on the water as we decided to
leave, my feet were heavy as we walked
and I remembered my unlit cigarette.

let us say those words again

let us say those words again
some words that may touch us again
words that may make a poem
or a song
words that may dissolve into the iris of your eyes
and stay warm there
some words that remind us of days and nights gone by
words that may lead to other words may be new words
some words that may touch us again
words that may make a poem
or a song
words that fly from the tips of your fingers
and live on your lips
some words that may lead to new stories new threads
of new songs on lips on finger tips
let us say those words again
some words that have a name and a date
words that may touch us again
words that we could mount on our lips and keep
warm in our eyes
let us say those words again

When my Lover will come

When my lover will come and I will hear her feet,
I will tear that hour from the fabric of unreliable time
and hang the musk of that hour like a flag
and stitch it to the bloodied walls of my memory.

When my lover will come and I will hear her feet,
I will slave my heart beats to the drowsy sound of her anklets
as she will step on my spreading desire,
drowning that hour with the spreading mist of her scent.

When my lover will come and I will hear her feet,
I will read out all the words that I know to her,
and throw away all the blank papers I own as
she will write her name on each moment of that captive time.

When my lover will come and I will hear her feet,
I will hide all the awkward din of my awkward heart
as I will touch each strand of her long brown hair
and tie her hair and myself in knots.

true love is without conditions

true love is without conditions you always said,
night or day, before dawn or at dusk,
the lover's wrist or the lover's waist
must be equal music.
we must kill ourselves before this word is lipped,
we must whip ourselves before love is lived,
we must be ready to die at this altar you always said,
love is not for everyone.
love tears us rips us rends bare our nerves you said,
the knocks it gives the heartbeats heartaches are sweet
you always said. it is murder it is an injustice,
love is night it is darkness it is day.
the traces it leaves its marks are dark you always said,
they are inside look no more,
the moth that kills itself the flame its madness
is love, look no more.
and the emptiness at night restless hope you always said,
is love. the long list of complaints, the long nights
the long days every injustice pales before its
merciless hooves, you said.

distant like dreams

Deep and dense,
like a deep dense forest in one of my forgotten dreams,
your voice calls me in a language that
I do not know.
I struggle to understand what you mean as
our lips and our fingers and our eyes meet.
Fever is sweet.
I try to recall that moment of love
but I remember nothing now.
Love never lingers for long, nor passion.
I often think how your voice used to sound, your stress on certain words,
but everything is vague.
I remember your colours often but everything is slippery like life itself.
What forgiveness now if I cannot remember clearly how your
eyes would colour at the threat of my touch?

on certain evenings

certain evenings bring fierce pain
just after sunset, and a little before total darkness
comes a strange feeling. often in the past
I thought it was a longing for familiar habits
or pure sentiment or just missing those that I truly miss.
but this nameless ceaseless emptiness is more
than mere longing or nostalgia. sometimes it comes as soon as
I hear a sad song played in a language that I do not
know. sometimes the way the traffic lights change
and reflect and burn in a restaurant window, you know that feeling?
the beautiful girl dining inside sitting opposite
a man oblivious of her beauty, the missed heartbeat of that moment,
you know what i am talking about?
the way the high street feral cat hides his anguish behind anger,
on the main street, that gives me endless pain too.
sometimes there is no reason in all this you see, you have gone
your way, and soon everything will be forgotten, you and me
and the cat and the beautiful girl. even smoking cigarettes
does not help, even one after the other. the calm of burning candles
does not kill the anguish of real or imagined pain.

autumn dusks

Two blocks from our high street stands the casbah bar cafe,
where loiterers and some say illegal migrants puff at nargile in these cold autumn days.
Others, blinded by dusk and melancholy and other afflictions,
stand and smoke smuggled Russian cigarettes.
Some laze around on worn out chairs outside the cafe,
drinking coffee and listening to early Cohen.
At dusk all are equal so we think,
The resident poet, the illegal migrant or the affable conservative voter.
And yet each dusk is different and brings different pain.
We havent seen the well read girl
with long brown hair for weeks,
days are getting short and it will be winter soon.
I remember last winter,
when we met last and when you left.

when you opened your palm

you opened your palm and the years fell away
like sand from your palm the hours fell down like sand
when you opened your palm time stopped something happened
like sand drifting away like the years fell away
and you didn't speak and I didn't say a word in all that silence
the hush of that silence you know it was strange it was so silent as you opened your palm
and the years fell away like sand from your palm
in all that silence all that time you didn't say a word and I didn't speak
in all that silence the hush of that silence your pale palm I saw your pale hands
as you opened your palm and the years fell away like sand in that silence
the loudness of that silence and you didn't speak and I didn't say a word
and the hours fell down and we each turned away towards our different ways
and how long were those moments as we walked away towards our different ways
and how loud everything else seemed how loud was that silence
as we turned towards different ways as you opened your palm as I turned away
as the years fell away like sand from your palm how everything drifted
like sand like those hours how everything fell away and how silent everything was
and how loud that silence

what use are words

what use are my words now
when you called I did not turn
I let the world lead me into colours
that I always detest

what use are my words
I hate how they fall on your ears
how hollow they sound
as I live my life as if it is somebody else's

what use are my words whether I write them or
speak into the hollow of your eyes you will never
trust me to turn if you call again
and I no longer believe what I say to myself

what use are my words now
to whom do I say out loud that I do not
trust what I said to the flaming sky when
you called and I did not turn

what use are my words
the words that I inscribe are shallow as they leave
my fingers sad as they leave my lips
I shudder at my words I should have turned

Last Kiss

The taste of your last kiss is like rust in my mouth
as I survey all the time that has passed since
then. Your heavy eyebrows weigh on my heart now as
I spend all my time thinking about you in metaphors.

I lost equilibrium after you left and I coveted the musk
of your last touch. Each day after that is like a chain
around my neck.
Nothing has mellowed.

Some hours bring back the luxury of your skin as
I count all the times we swam in each other. Some moments
stand out like jagged peaks of pain and yet
everything smells of rust.

another evening in tangier

all night he waited for arrival, for the sudden beats of arriving
and felt nothing but the crushing weight of expectation
as his brave plans melted into a dawn unexpectedly clear.
and now with solemn steps he makes his way to the eastern beach,
away from urchins and tourists and lies barebacked on the sand
in the shade of an alcove, waiting to see those big waves later.

she did not give her promise though he waited long enough,
he thought as he lay on the sand all day long.

it is evening again he sits again in cafe paris smoking Kif
as other places beckon, the call of demanding days in uncertain times.
reflection does not bring him any more wisdom
than does looking at the sea or the sky.
she will never know his innermost heart and
he will soon forget her face any way.

his mood has changed from restless agitation to resigned sadness
as he discovers other colours that had lay hidden till then.
the sea and the sky no longer seem intent on meeting
in the old city life is making old noises as
big berber men walk alongside bare feet urchins smoking kif,
and riffian women hide their hennaed palms.
but now he only looks and moves on.

You and Me

To your reason I will give my silence and make it reasonable
To your caution I will give impulse and restless heart,
To you I give myself, to your hours palpitation,
To your heart restless tread of my feet, my lonely hands, What else?

I cannot think of an hour of repose, I have no peace,
I know no peace, I only wait and wait
and then you come and I have no peace still.
At night I try to read and I think of you, and then I smoke a lot
and cannot sleep and I have no peace or sleep.

To your measured silence I give words, spoken and unspoken alike
To your cautious reserve I give reckless hope
To your affable words I add poetry, some sad poems
To you I give myself, come take me, was that the sea?

Evening in Tangier

In Tangier, a summer evening and the sun sinks into the sea
and the sky turns a mellow red, a sad red.
In the old quarter, along the narrow lanes leading
to the eastern beach that overlooks an old fort
come the noises that life gives,
Berber men, barefeet urchins and
Riffian women with hennaed palms.
He sits in Cafe Paris, in the old quarter, smoking Kif,
and he sits and sighs, he sits and smokes,
planning to abduct the girl he loves,
the girl he thinks he loves.
He hears some drum beats in the distance,
old songs hummed outside the cafe, he feels
the din and bustle and the early melancholy of the hour.
Tough business this love is, he thinks as roguish policemen
accompany poor Riffian women to dark despair.
It is completely dark, his resolve tested, mind decided.
I will wait for her, he decides, smoke more Kif and
listen to the saddest songs.
Tall Berber men in soft hushed tones speak of
revolution and love as he sinks into his chair.
It is going to be a long night.

strange days

these are strange days
hot and humid days, sometimes rainy mostly warm
always long days, warm days,
sad and long days, strange and warm, long days.
the neighbourhood diva has left without warning
and another Polish grocery has opened on the high street
these are days made memorable by your absence
crazy days, days of surmise, of longing and dry lips
mostly sad always long days.

in another part of the world
young men throw stones at their oppressors
and have their brains blown apart, their blood spilled
and their mothers wail in vain, beating their chests
in vain, as the fist of time and the indifference of the world
blows a hole in the wailing chests of their mothers,
who wail in vain, as their sons are buried in soil that is burdened
with the blood and tears of wailing mothers.

meanwhile, nearer still, the resident poet walks in the
northern moors in these warm cloudless days,
long and often bare days.
we spend much of the night smoking, waiting as we turn
to previously read love poems, remembered and liked alike
and now read loudly in these mirthless days.
these are days soaked in blood and made memorable
by your absence, days of longing, hot and humid,
sometimes rainy but mostly warm, long days,
strange days.

The Unspoken Word

the unspoken word will always remain unheard
it will simmer in my eyes
behind the trace of the last meeting
it will stay on my lips
behind the tremor of my tongue
it will hang with shadows
and get dragged by my feet
it will blight all my hours
and heave with the darkness of these nights
it will claw my skin
and draw circles on sheets of time

the unspoken word will not enter your world
it will stay in my eyes
behind the shades of your face
it will stay on my lips
beside the sound of your name
it will hang with shadows
and drag me with its weight
it will blight all my hours
and fan the fires of distance
it will claw my skin
as I write your name on sheets of time

You died young, you who died in autumn

You died young, you who died in autumn,
a silent sudden death, leaving a sudden silence.
I search for your face in my collection of
memories, I search for the last time we met,
when our eyes did not betray the finality
of fate and parting.

I see your clear face, the long nose,
the receding line of your hair,
your acrimonious wit, your smile above all
and the acceptance of fate and your
listless destiny.

I remember too the days of sunshine,
of snow and afternoon laziness,
in the playgrounds of our unbecoming,
of youth and what now is only death.

And now my friend, you lie buried,
covered with dew and rain and snow,
with damp, dead and fallen autumn leaves,
wet leaves and tears on your grave.
you left far too abruptly, too soon
and too suddenly.

The above lines are written in the memory of a dear friend who died recently in a road accident.

The waters of poetry

The waters of poetry will rise tonight
as your skin will blaze with my touch,
as the fever in your eyes will rise
step by feverish step.
The fast darts of your passion.

The waters of poetry will rise
as I will recite aloud the poems
that you like
and leave the best till the end,
leave it on the tip of my tongue
to leave it on the tip of your tongue.

The waters of poetry will mount
and the fever in your eyes will rage
like an angry beast against the chains
of this beastly fire.
The fires will burn and won't die out.

Night itself will stoke the beast of this poem,
stir the waters of this poem
as the madness of our skins will
unremember the reason of our reserve.
This blaze and fever will restore
the forgotten lyric of our skin and stones.