A Reminder

With absolutely nothing to do today, I decided to write a poem. It has been a considerably long time. I noticed something today about most of, if not all, my poems. These poems that I pen or type are always of a critical and vatic nature, somehow predicting, indicting some element, some image of the real world (in abstract, uncouth language nonetheless). I seem incapable of writing a poem that can pass as a celebratory encomium of the world's present state, of things "as they are played on the blue guitar." More on all this later, or never...

A Reminder

Only my life could look at me this way,
like an impatient lover whose eyes open mid-kiss.
The fact of being connected, of having a breakable body,
sings above and beyond the din of this blind moment.

At first I couldn’t recognize anything here.
The birds had implausible plumage,
the sun seethed downward toward another life,
dipping darkly into these hills while emerging in a different sky.

Plato says that it is the sun that illuminates our soul,
but I find it hard to befriend the sun.
It is superior, and thus abstract; its unearthly face
shows in all faces, all times, and remains serenely unknown.

The moon, on the other hand, appears every night.
In the empty orchards of this mysterious town,
its silent face looks with patience at the world. With its companion,
the wind--my conciliator--I remain here for the time being.

Nobody is missing in this scene,
all have entered into the stream without looking back.
The dark fish, like words with no meaning,
swim upstream into the mouth of the source.

The sun and moon always remain,
we run into them everywhere, like a memory cherished forever,
they are still real because they don't live
untouched in a lightless closet as silent as dust.