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Posts Tagged ‘conversation’

Some say love is never about speed but a slow

unfurling of beauty- gentle and unhurried.

That makes the difference between the passing

of time and the crafting of masterpiece-

not everyone is interested reading about angst.

 

And you fail to notice that everyone’s engaged

to their own brand of narcissism- they maintain

to survive and keep up one’s reputation.

 

And if you think that poets spend their lives

holed up in their four cornered walls and a window

looking in from the world changing night and day.

Self-absorbed about  feelings or digging of the past

and wanting for love that they never have.

 

Or won’t have.

 

Some say about exiles to another country

or to another time or another space would

make people stalk on your mysticism.

Or the lyricism of recording things-

one have chosen to leave behind.

 

You can be exiled even without a room.

That is easy- while you walk around nonchalant

and pretend you didn’t carry anything.

You must know how heavy it is to bring

one line of a poem and to bravely express it.

 

Who says poetry is a dying art? I say otherwise.

For centuries, poets mined gold, toiling the minds

of men and keep them going on despite travails.

Ranting about their lost loves, lost paradise

or lost keys of their hearts.

Or lost childhood. Or lost future.

 

Art that was losing chances and losing hope.

That made poems became songs sung out loud.

It became pieces of conversation. In the streets.

And in the way people speak. To sell. To buy

affection and things people would want

and impress people whom they would want

to belong with. But this will never be.

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I read what you have written.

I watch how you exist everyday.

I listen to what you have to say.

In silence I understand and

in the way of silence will I respond.

I may disagree with you

but I thank you for what you are,

in respect to the way you live

your truth. I may have biases

and pre-conditioned opinion

of how it was with my side of story.

But I do not beg you to listen,

nor to watch and read these lines.

For I know you will afford to respect

the unwritten code of tolerance.

Measure for measure. We swap

vantages and viewfinders.

We have a choice whether to see

things clearly in detail

or  the bigger picture.

We do not need to hide

the arguments on intellectual

acrobatics nor choose to mislead

honesty in fallacy. It is not

in the amount of words nor

the eloquence of the language,

but in this fraternal bond

that even in disagreement

we thrive in peace.

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I’m No Frank

Frank Lloyd Wright

and his falling water. Masses

of concrete cantilevered,

and extending outwards

like hands reaching- symbiosis.

But I’m no Frank

and dreams might be

my little fingers clasping

hard and pushing pencils

for somebody else’s utopia.

 

The hewn boulders of rock

resisting the foundation

on which this grand design sits,

I bear the weight of expectations.

Balancing upon the scales

on which the measure of cement

is mixed in sand and water.

The lapping over of slates into a bond.

The forward thrust of hammer to nails.

The tightening of ties around stirrups.

The alternate laying of the roof decking.

 

And the network of drain pipes,

cables and ducting, and waterlines

resembling the veins and sinews

of the building’s skeleton. I build

a symbol- the framework of the mind.

The genius envisions an edifice

in his intellectual acrobatics,

justifying to the world the modern-

reality that build themselves on paper.

 

Summoning the masons to lay

its plaster to newly cured blocks.

The painter to swab the walls

in fresh coats. The decorator

sets the chairs, the beds,

the mirrors and the tables.

The vases and layers of curtains.

The lifeless sculpture pieces

and paintings hanged to the walls.

Fixing rolls of wallpaper  and carpets

over polished granite floors.

 

The carpenter assembling

cabinet boxes, ledges and shelves.

The windows fitted to the sills.

And the doors hanged on frames.

The location of the chandelier.

Installing wooden slabs on stairs.

The green patinated balustrades.

The landscaper to plant shrubs, and ferns

and vines and trees and patch of grass.

The water fountains and the waterfall

arranged mimicking a natural set-up.

 

But I ‘m no Frank.

The hours stretched for miles and miles.

The drafting table becoming wet with fog

until  the first  hours of the morning.

I can hear the mad conversations

of the vellum and the graphite saying,

“deadline nears, it’s almost here”.

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In the old quarter of the city,

in the nakedness of the cold walls

of this back street. I sit alone, outside.

Here. In the almost empty corner of the café.

Looking beyond many mornings

distant, from the crowd.

 

There is something.

In the stale morning air that reminds me

of one strange midnight.

 

A quiet conversation of two souls

connecting among the silver teaspoons,

teacups and porcelain.

 

Exchanged glimpses of a period

when things are new, young and free.

Reliving a story of the jaded past

within a single stretch of hours

waiting for the sunrise.

 

There is something-

which I failed to grasp

and took hold of.

 

Something in the dust-filled glass windows.

The peeled off paint from the ceiling.

The wallpaper shedding its ancient skin.

The tattered leather and cushions

of these vintage chairs.

 

There is a memory of a voice fading

like the sheen from this worn-out table.

Among the bread crumbs for the pigeons to share.

And this bronzed cup leaving off a tinge-

a certain warmth I could not forget.

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Seldom will I ever had the chance to talk to a beautiful mind.  Seldom will somebody can really connect you to something that stimulates your senses and make you stop and listen to what he or she might be saying.  These are special times and quite a rarity.

In a conversation to a new acquaintance, I am having a hard time cracking myself open and start a little chatter about something that of little importance.  I am so shy, unless there is something in this person that lightens up and usher me to strike a line, a joke, just to break the ice.

Something that tickles an interest. I must confess, making yourself interesting is hard, but it is a lot harder to be genuinely interested to somebody who is opening up to you for the very first time.

And I met this beautiful mind in a far-fetched place  somewhere in Fujairah.  He is a Syrian. His name is Wajdi. A simple man. No pretensions, contented of who he is. And though his present status would allow him to choose his friends meticulously, he would rather not. No prejudices of whatsoever. And I must say that he have this.  A beautiful mind.

When I visited Ann and there he was, interestingly fragile, is aloof at first. If not for Ann and Beth (Ann’s friend), the connection might have been lost somewhere. And how in the world that an Orthodox would comfortably mingle with a bunch of Filipinos like us.  I believe there would be some cultural clashes in between.

But wait, he doesn’t look like an intruder. He looks like a lamb who is not fond of complaining and whining about his life’s travails. When he talks about his country and his way of life, he can vividly describe it in words. It’s such a wonder  to imagine that you are seeing it first-hand in your mind like a map.  I never had imagined how he eloped some of the traps I have made during our conversations. This I intentionally do, just for the purpose of cutting short a probable senseless chatter, if the case maybe.

But amazingly, he would come up with a fresh perspective on a topic, and he can keep up with the task to make the conversation flowing and interesting. Then unknowingly, the hours would stretch longer due to the countless exchanges of  opinions and anecdotes.

Wajdi is not your ordinary guy. He is someone, who never eats red meat, shuns too much eating especially rice. He would just be contented of his Arabic bread with some unknown herbs on it. Though, in between his stories of childhood, it was quite clear to me that he is  used to this eating pattern. One time, I sarcastically told him, that he might end up as tasteless to me if I would be a lycan or a monster ready to devour him. And he would just smile innocently.

And on my last day in Fujairah, I told him that if I would be given a chance to bring him to Dubai, for being a good conversationalist with  his witty and intelligent arguments, I said, I would chop him part by part and put him on my luggage. And he just smiled there.  He nodded, and said that I can do so if I really want to. That was meant for a joke.

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