altheabashar

I Like it When I Stop

Sat, 05 Dec 2009 05:18:49 GMT

I like it when I stop,
For whatever reason I stop.

Now I'm dabbling in the moment, drawing in my notebook, combing the cats or cutting
Out pictures on the couch . . .

A voice will nag me to stop and get up and do something, like Father's,
But I ignore it--

In a carefree way, I read my book;
Maybe I'm behind on my work,
Perhaps Father's nervousness was justified.

All the heaps of things to do,
All the consecutive chores,
All the lofty goals,
The force of progress becomes a blur.

What I love the most is this,
A place of utter emptiness,
Where Hours go unrecorded,
And minutes disappear, unmarked by significance,
Yet full of meaning too, pregnant even, like a secret.

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Recognition

Mon, 23 Nov 2009 22:24:18 GMT

Reading a literary book on the art of the memoir, I had an insight about my father. I pictured that both of us were on parallel tracks--that despite the differences in our chosen vocations--I would become very much like my father.

And I tried to picture more deeply who he was.

As if from another region of my mind, I pulled a transparent film over my father, covering his outsized character, his successes, his failures, his determination, his foolishness . . .

And that transparent film was me.

More Writings by the Author

I Knew

Thu, 12 Nov 2009 10:05:02 GMT

What I am living now, I knew would happen;
I dreamt this life, just not the end.

More Poetry . . .

Constant Craving

Sat, 17 Oct 2009 01:05:51 GMT

Now would be a good time to quit,
Said the pharmacist with red hair.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow--
You will feel better.

Yes, I nodded my feverish head
And carried the medicine home . . .

Perfect moments must eventually
Give way to the physical self.

Now I recall dining with the queen,
Laughing at the actors on stage,

Now I recall the polite doorman,
Holding back the heavy door,

Now I recall our evening walks
Dispelling every doubt we had.

But constant craving doubles back
Like a charmed snake;

My heart is never full.

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poem

Mon, 14 Sep 2009 07:41:52 GMT

Beatles music
chorus of ironic hope
Friday night invitation
to solitude

Boy, you're going to
carry that weight
a long time

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poem

Mon, 24 Aug 2009 05:46:00 GMT

we have so many chances
it's a wonder
we ever grow sad

30,000 years ago
a cave dweller
carved this lion man

some complex ritual
I'll never get to experience
but I wake up

30,000 years later
day follows, more or less,
the same cycle

sometimes this depresses me
because I feel like I'm caught
in a mold of clay

and my body has hardened
into ritual

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poem

Thu, 16 Jul 2009 07:53:22 GMT

there was a black cat
silhouetted in the garden,

black fur that was never touched before,
bright eyes full of suspicion--

and something more

she peered at me for the longest,
my reflexes froze.

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poem

Mon, 29 Jun 2009 03:22:37 GMT

each night I go to bed
a little bit later
I wake up in the morning
forgetting the past

days add up like coins in my pocket
I'm rich with hours
another little bit has passed

I find another hobby
swear to myself I'll get healthy
another little bit has passed

I think about the news
write about my views
another little bit has passed

when will this world come to an end?
it seems so eternal right now

This poem was originally posted on Twitter as an experimental project in spontaneous poetry via Twitter with @paulokoba

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poem

Thu, 11 Jun 2009 08:49:14 GMT

My little gray cat has grown so fat
I don't even recognize him anymore.

I used to cradle him in my arms,
He used to run around the house,

Now he sits at the foot of my bed
And begs me to feed him again.

It seems the buffet I prepare every day
Is never enough for my little gray cat.

Next week he'll expect to dine on frogs' legs and wine
But all I'll have is the same chicken liver.

Why has my little gray cat
grown so feeble and fat?

It must be his perpetual supper.

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poem

Sun, 07 Jun 2009 07:58:53 GMT

It was a dream I had
before I went to bed
I said, "Dad"--

both of us were in the car
on a strip of highway
we stared like zombies
into the cone of headlights

"What?" My dad answered
his voice dropped into the darkness
like lead

and the desert appeared
alongside the ridge of a cactus

"Nothing," I said.

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The Moth

Fri, 15 May 2009 09:38:25 GMT

The moth approached me like a blinking eye,
I was having a cigarette in the garage.
The birds squeaked in the far off darkness,
a menacing sound disrupting the night.

I pressed the moth to give me her reasons
for staying up as late as she did--
She continued to blink, and I awaited her answer,
but nothing came.

The birds heckled the darkness and the darkness
heckled back--the chaos persisted but
remained subdued and the neighbors
stayed in bed.

The children, in their warm beds,
were dreaming of magical places,
and I bemoaned my condition
while having my cigarette in the garage.

I thought of summer, which was expected
to come, maybe tomorrow or never,
I figured I'd be sleeping when it did.
I thought of the hours I'd missed.

The moth returned after awhile,
she blinked her wings again and again,
She seemed to know I had a mild fever,
she seemed to know my memories too.

Let me go, I said. Be off. I want to sleep.

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poem

Thu, 23 Apr 2009 22:39:29 GMT

the bicyclist in the temperate air--
loves motion

his nylon-fitted suit glides over the strip
of pavement

and bright bands of color sky-blue
purple comet and seashell scatter
into the whirling breezes

I ride with him for a moment
until his crouched figure beside the cornfields
disappears

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poem

Sat, 18 Apr 2009 10:18:37 GMT

my cats are eager to know
what I do in my garage
and so is my father--

I write poetry at dawn

rebellion ended some time ago
destructed me into flames
all I have now is a little

cigarette to burn before daybreak
the birds to call my name
the echoes in the empty backyards

I'm not suffering here
maybe I was yesterday,
early this hour I'm bright
shimmering with silence

a trap I once stuck my foot in
now has no power to contain
the loops of knots don't fit anymore
and rebellion is a word for children

but I'm a man
terribly aware of my freedom
to do destructive things

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poem

Sat, 11 Apr 2009 07:26:59 GMT

Out of the cloudy liquid
comes joy--a pure, admirable feeling

then there is the gravely
turn of the wheel
over the restless, buried dead

you're led down that familiar path
from your childhood,
to the end of the cul de sac

a retreat into a lonely,
reassuring place.

We're blessed with everything
but everything is never enough

and how do we explain
regression?

the drink on the table
empty--go fill another glass

cigarettes in the new jacket pocket
five more until daybreak

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poem

Thu, 02 Apr 2009 09:19:02 GMT

i relish these days
even the smoke that pours from my lips
is sweet
even the stranger
makes me secretly smile

i relish these days of quick, intense pain
the arresting hours of doubt
and the wild, bright future that just breaks in

i relish the moon that keeps me company
while i write these poems
to a forgotten son

i relish conversations in the dark
with my cats
the playful gestures of their paws

i relish a meal with a new friend
parmesan shards on my lips
as nervous laughter erupts

i relish my whole uninterrupted self
the silos of pain and the exclamatory
Yes coming from nowhere and never

i relish giant moments like these
which embrace me

could this life be anymore unknown?

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poem

Mon, 30 Mar 2009 07:27:37 GMT

the anxious child beating in my heart
is you
furious whirling child of discontent and love
you disentangle with grace
never losing touch with unmistakable anguish
you fall
belatedly
to the bottom of the world

a cycle will remake you
as a cycle
broke you down
and all your thoughts about the world
won't matter

i'm young again with you
i'm blind and naked and undefeated
anxious child come dance with me

what are you afraid of
only lovers speak this way
what are you running from
timid infant on a wave

the dark engulfing world
will cower
behind you and me

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poem

Sat, 28 Mar 2009 06:05:03 GMT

the magic night that caught us by surprise
the sudden emptiness that followed
what parts should we remember?
what parts forget?

as the car was moving
in all directions
and trumpets played
into the wind

you came to me
distracted by a dream
you drove to my house
your vision beautifully incomplete

from here
the road curves into darkness
a darkness I've never traveled before

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poem

Sat, 07 Mar 2009 14:35:07 GMT

my girlfriend is leaving for good this time
it's over now
she cried on my shoulder
it's done
untangle me from this mess, oh God
an ugly child waiting to become beautiful

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poem

Fri, 06 Feb 2009 06:05:01 GMT

so many scratches
so many lines scrawled here and there
I carry this old notebook
forgetting it often, though it lay there

peruse your life
look at the grooves
that one

I am no seeker
no spiritual man
the seeking stopped once I realized discontent
like repeating chords

scraps of days
endless bits of things
attracting and repulsing me in quivers
just one endless loop into tomorrow
living without a clue:

that's me

my dumb innocence
i used to look back and read what I wrote
and linger on it because it was raw and young

today I think I'm old

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poem

Fri, 23 Jan 2009 08:12:19 GMT

I am full of hope
anticipation
and wine
but curling on the edge like a burnt napkin

despair, dread, the memories
of failure
what a cold bunch of phrases and yet
that's what it feels like

I'm not drifting away tonight
just typing
and I'll go to bed accepting
knowing when I wake up
a new day will be there
radiantly reminding me of this possibility
another reason to desire things.

the inevitable pattern is a blessing and a
conundrum
We look back on the whole lot
but i doubt that this is the end of suffering
maybe resolution will crown our lonely heads
one day
maybe strangers will greet us in the morning
and know who we are

I doubt anything in this world will change twice
if anything were to happen
it would overwhelm the mind

this mad quest of life

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poem

Sun, 18 Jan 2009 20:36:43 GMT

even our misery is fakegray
newspapers stuck to the wall
ink bled from one column
to the next stock market quotes
in giant red digits proclaiming the end

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poem

Sat, 03 Jan 2009 05:09:09 GMT

my room is muffled like a blanket
a fixed hour neither forward nor back
my girlfriend detests the tight-rope walker
his infantile dream of endangering himself
the night gathers his back
to the fire a moonlit cape

between my ears is silence
the mysteries scrawled like iridescent wings
the tight-rope walker takes a step
forward across the looming office towers

i write to escape whatever my life contains
a range of habits and contradictions and charades
no matter what I read in books or people's faces
I'm light as the wire or doomed to make these errors again
the arguments are circular

my father and his beliefs,
my best friend is skeptical by nature,
my subconscious will always win,
the heroes I admire, never fail me
the torrents
like a penny down a black endless hole
so emptiness falls endlessly

seconds before instants
what should have been days
water rushing in
I'm no longer coming full circle
proud relatives will leave this earth unhappy

winter cats prefer comfort and clean
water, supper, breakfast, and then bed
dream pictures hang everywhere in the living room
i'm not getting anywhere with them

i remember when I was younger;
how I would pander to the crowd
and dance like a clown on a tight-rope

adolescence was a hold-up
you couldn't get across to my universe
without falling;
adulthood the ground never ends

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poem

Wed, 31 Dec 2008 18:30:34 GMT

Whitman was right
I want to be a child
living on the couch all day
life in front of the fireplace
dreaming
dreaming of fame but also dreaming
of light and fictional lands
of becoming another person
in another century

the clean sun spots on wintry fields outside my doorstep
branches swaying
I have no control over this eruption of feeling
I will write when I write
and hold silence in empty seasons
I too am paralyzed

to be myself
I stopped writing poetry for a whole year
you can't explain the muse
I tried to control my hand
but my hand rebelled

winter is a sabre
from the root a river flows
cutting the morning with these lazy thoughts
grown into little children
sad wayfarers
the open rose
winter lavish in cold innocence

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Arnold

Thu, 05 Jun 2008 05:03:13 GMT

I saw him again

pushing his metal walker

with twisted leg

and plodding step

down the manicured sidewalk

his right shoe dragging against the concrete

like a bundle of forgotten letters

and a screeching, jangling sound

wailed somewhere in the wheels

as if to remind him

of his fetters

and I imagined his lot

not as if it were mine

but just what it would be like to be him

for a second

half-paralyzed and lonely

the rickety metal following you

wherever you go;

and in summer,

when we are preening ourselves

him tottering forth on screeching wheels

stoop-shouldered, asking our names

the metal walker lurks past perfect lawns,

Arnold stands by the open road

wincing at cars;

one more time

he looks enviously upon the world

Narciso and his Mother

Mon, 19 May 2008 03:37:18 GMT

Every night before bed Narciso dreamed of the kingdom of the land of children. His curly head rested on his pillow and he looked up at his ceiling which was full of glowing stars. Between the constellations he saw himself and the future of his realm of children. He saw himself with a crown on his head and thousands of boys and girls surrounding him, waving colorful banners, carrying him on their shoulders, and shouting his praises. And then he would fall asleep.

His dreams were nothing like his daydreams. His dreams were populated by evil giants, sea creatures, and deformed creatures he read about in his fairy books. One night, Narciso cried for his mother . . .

"Mother, mother, tell me why my dreams are filled with demons, evil giants and sea monsters? I'm afraid. I'm afraid one morning I won't wake up. I'm afraid they'll eat me."

"No sweetie," Narciso's mother said. "Those ghouls won't eat you, they're not real. They don't have real teeth and once you get close to them they just disappear. Like smoke."

"Can I sleep in your room tonight Mommy?"

"Yes, but only for one night."

That night Narciso laid up in bed, on his mother's pillow, staring at the ceiling.

"What are you looking at Narciso?"

"I'm looking at the kingdom of the land of children. They're carrying me on their shoulders. They're praising me, Mommy."

Narciso's mother knitted her brows in concern. "I don't see anyone up there, sweetie."

"Yes Mommy. They're there. The land of children. With all the boys and girls. And I rule over them. I'm their ruler. They need me."

"What are you talking about sweetie? It's late. Let's go to bed."

"But I'm afraid of the monsters Mommy."

"There won't be any monsters sweetie. No monsters tonight. Mommy is here."