Monday, 20 September 2010


When I was very young (a mere child) I would often wonder at moonlight. Moonlight was a cold and tangible thing, a painful thing, it would remind me of lands I had never visited, of dreams I had not yet seen, of people I had not yet met. The proleptic rays of the moon would engulf me in a wave of nauseous nostalgia, a nostalgia that I had not yet felt. I would close my eyes and crouch in front of the large French windows which looked out on a meadow. I would feel alone. And I was only five.

I am sorry I was ever born. The secret enchanted woodlands of my childhood, sad yet enticing, is called by another name now. Love. The pain dries my throat and leaves me incoherent as I realize that love is nothing but a dream I cannot see, a land just out of my reach, a person I will never know.

Then I gaze at the moon and the moon sings a soft dirge.
Beethoven heard it so many years ago.

Why am I no longer five? Why did I have to grow up so much? The solitude then was of a different kind, an awareness that some benevolence exists, a mother will sing me to sleep, a father will hold my hand as my feet softly trace the contours of dewy grass. Such days leave us by- and we are only left with the memory, the mere silhouette, the shadow

of a bitter moon.
How long can one pretend?

Friday, 10 September 2010


You smell foul like a night of wretched desperation, like
the sorrows of sin, the joys of horror. You stun like
the pleasures of paradox, you ferment like wine into
vinegar-and I do not understand why I loved you.

You trouble me on nights of solitude when the darkness
black night punctuated by my solitary presence
when your presence fades like morning star into daylight
and you cry like an orphan or a dog
and I think- I loved this demon.

You wished to steal my patience, until nights of
endless perspiration rendered me insane, and I
feverishly gathered the sweat off your brow like
dew and I drank it like nectar
But now it tastes like the sea.

You had eyes like pools of water, black as the ocean
that reflects the nights. Endless nights of fruitless
waiting-when you slumbered in the depths of another's
While I stayed awake and paced the shore.

You do not exist, for my mind is that of a mad girl.
You called her a bad girl, did you ever see a sad
pearl? Shining white and lonely in the middle of
the ocean bed-clammed shut from the eyes of the world.

I thought you were my diver,
would wear me across your neck
in a calm caress but
You sold me to a shop.