colors of the wind

When I first read this poem by Abdul Wahab, I thought, Mm. Some words have the power to leave us in a space beyond their reach.

In between my decorative cover
I laid a lot of colourful words
In red, blue, green and white
In black, sorrow and pain
All the doubts in yellow
I wrote in pink
The nightmares
I went through
In upper case I kept
The fragrance of lofty thought
You taught me
In tight secrecy, the memories
In maroon, in turquoise
The joy I got
Side by side
Along with the moon
Still words are merely words
You can not see
The wounds of the wind
Oozing of the heart
Red blood of the dream
Still unmakes the image
Of the blank space
Left by you
With Big Dash I am only
Able to paint
The sound of
Of emptiness


a bit of Bill

This is William Shakespeare’s Sonnet 60, a reflection on magic.

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea
But sad mortality o’er-sways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
O, how shall summer’s honey breath hold out
Against the wrackful siege of batt’ring days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?
O fearful meditation! where, alack,
Shall time’s best jewel from time’s chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
   O, none, unless this miracle have might,
   That in black ink my love may still shine bright.

words alight

This poem is called “These Hands, If Not Gods” and is written by Natalie Diaz.

Haven’t they moved like rivers–

like Glory, like light–

over the seven days of your body?

And wasn’t that good?

Them at your hips–

isn’t this what God felt when he pressed together

the first Beloved: Everything.

Fever. Vapor. Atman. Pulsus. Finally,

a sin worth hurting for. Finally, a sweet, a

You are mine.

It is hard not to have faith in this:

from the blue-brown clay of night

these two potters crushed and smoothed you

into being–grind, then curve–built your form up–

atlas of bone, fields of muscle,

one breast a fig tree, the other a nightingale,

both Morning and Evening.

O, the beautiful making they do–

of trigger and carve, suffering and stars–

Aren’t they, too, the dark carpenters

of your small church? Have they not burned

on the altar of your belly, eaten the bread

of your thighs, broke you to wine, to ichor,

to nectareous feast?

Haven’t they riveted your wrists, haven’t they

had you at your knees?

And when these hands touched your throat,

showed you how to take the apple and the rib,

how to slip a thumb into your mouth and taste it all,

didn’t you sing out their ninety-nine names–

Zahir, Aleph, Hands-time-seven,

Sphinx, Leonids, locomotura,

Rubidium, August, and September–

And when you cried out, O, Prometheans,

didn’t they bring fire?

These hands, if not gods, then why

when you have come to me, and I have returned you

to that from which you came–bright mud, mineral-salt–

why then do you whisper O, my Hecatonchire. My Centimani.

My hundred-handed one?


mother to son

poem by Langston Hughes

Well, son, I’ll tell you:

Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

It’s had tacks in it,

And splinters,

And boards torn up,

And places with no carpet on the floor–



But all the time

I’se been a-climbin’ on,

And reachin’ landin’s,

And turnin’ corners,

And sometimes goin’ in the dark

Where there ain’t been no light.


So boy, don’t you turn back.

Don’t you set down on the steps

‘Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.

Don’t you fall now–

For I’se still goin’, honey,

I’se still climbin’,

And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.