New Poems

The poem Anatomy/Geography is the last one I wrote during my stay in Germany. The second one depicts the end of a love relationship without pointing at a particular case.The bottom line is that there are many chances to plan things ahead in a couple and the next day we can't wait to get rid of one another.

Anatomy/Geography

Sitting motionless on my bed.
With every gulp of air I inhale
I feel in my chest the peak of a newly-born mountain.
I breath out
And fall into a bottomless sea
But soon run out of air.
Another mountain soon pierces my chest.
Breath , breath says the body.Or you will die.
My soul clambers ceaselessly
Hands and feet into piercing stony-thorny earth
But every time he is just a step away
Of reaching safe land
The clods get smashed into his fists.
All that is left from a stout mountain
Gets levelled down by the rythmical thundering earthquakes of the heart.


Roots
Slowly I’m trudging the soles of my shoes back home
At dusk my shadow oozes fluidly down my pipe-like feet
Drops of lead fill up the pores of the pavement
Creating an impersonal , hell-like self-portrait of the paintor.

As long as the wind brushes our fluttering body contours across it
It denies any remodellation of its surface
But it is eager to resume its never-changing smooth complexion
As soon as the moon is up.

As opposed to the shiny screen of the lake
It makes no distinction between old or young.
Just like Procust’s bed, it overemphasizes deformities.
Just like the reflections of my self on the smooth shield of your thoughts.

My brain become a pot of honey and I have to set free
The nasty swarm of bees humming my ear
Until they leave a larvae –leaving me with the burden of pampering it
And protecting it against …..you know what I mean


You stop and wait on the pavement.
Not for me but for the green light.
Shadows of anguish contort my face.
I notice that we’ve become like two pieces of magnet with the same polarity.


Rejecting each, denying that we are the roots of the same tree.
Beneath the soil ,the pavement,
Faster than the moles, the worms,
Carving the underground clay.

Heading towards the abrupt precipice of the grave
After having spread all our tentacles
In search of the ripest soil.
After all isn’t the way all things go astray ?