This Side of The Moon

My Tinder profile jokingly calls out to those who want to be immortalised in a poem. And curiously many men get in touch demanding their poem without even doing anything to inspire me. Well, all I can give them are a line or two. On the other hand, the inspiration behind my most recent works never asked for a poem. He became my muse without knowing it. He was simply attentive, selfless and caring. And I lost him before he could even be mine. I wish he knew. I wish he read my works. I wish there was hope for us. 

THIS SIDE OF THE MOON

On this side of the moon,
When evening rushes in,
I don the guise of a huntress
And march, across dead leaves
And dead dreams
Into stuffy bedrooms
And obscure pubs
And ice-cream parlours
And tequila bars
Though I know you aren’t there.

The half-darkness promises noble preys
But morning falls on overripe boys
Who do not merit a mere blotch
Of my overflowing ink.

On this side of the moon,
Lips kiss while souls lie in boredom
And bodies mingle, but hearts never unite.
So my neglected heart
Wraps itself into your memory,
And my lips, frozen in feigned smile,
Swallow a waterfall of tears.
On this side of the moon
I will miss you until my final day.

And on the other side of the moon?
Do you remember the taste of my kiss,
The warmth of my hand,
The shade of my eyes?
Do you ever dream about me,
Or lie awake,
Asking what could have been?
Or is my heart too far away
On this side of the moon?

A Storm is Coming

The waves still sway softly by the shore,
And the mist of paradise still curtains the land.
But yonder back clouds hold their council
To herald the approach of war.
A storm is coming.
The wind screeches and mocks us.
This time there is no escape.
The boat, oft besieged by rain, cannot withstand more.
The mist dissolves.
The sun hides in fear.
A storm is coming,
And the boat must capsize.
Its cargo, gathered lifelong,
Unseen treasures destined to delight,
All will succumb to decay
When the storm arrives.

I pity thee, woeful captain, who dreamt of
Happy excursions on summer days,
Envisioning love, and feeding on laughter.
Summer has run away, captain.
And winter is in charge.
From now on, storms will reign and rage.
But worry not, captain.
A mighty storm is coming.
You will soon be at rest.

Back to London

This is a poem that expresses how I feel about returning to London after spending most of the summer having fun overseas.

The black shadows of memories embrace me.
As paradise flies away on a paper plane
And the leaking vase of joy falls into pieces.

And I awaken on the riverbank
To see all,
My hopes, my dreams, my life flow by
Slowly, surely.
And only London stays behind;
My nightmare in daylight,
The city of choking air
And empty hearts.

I hold onto the wind, the smoke, the puff of steam,
All that’s upward-bound
And saves me from the inevitable,
Unavoidable,
Ultimate fall.

God vs. Gurus

It is without doubt that spirituality is gaining popularity. Websites and newspaper articles wax lyrical about mindfulness, travel agents earn fortunes with their spiritual retreats, and there are regular meditation courses even in smaller cities. More and more people, disillusioned with a selfish and cruel world, set out in pursuit of something beyond its limitations. But while we are ready to accept the existence of supernatural forces, why do we reject religion so stubbornly?

This could be a sign of the selfishness of our times. The old-fashioned, traditional sense of community is often sacrificed at the altar of individual goals. Everything around us tells us that we, our dreams and our desires are above all else. Others matter less and less. Eager to pursue our dreams, we turn to supernatural beings because we believe that they can help us. We are attracted to guardian angels because they can ward off danger. We rush to return to our past lives through meditation because they nurture the illusion that not our current mistakes but events in a different lifetime are responsible for our failures. We meditate to empower ourselves and shut out a cruel world. We gladly dip into the warm pool of spiritualism, because it comforts us with encouraging messages: we are valuable, therefore we should only accept the best and never compromise or give up on anything. And most importantly, they give the impression that we are in charge of our lives, and we can even control supernatural forces.

By contrast, religion cannot offer such an appealing message. God says that we are born to be humble servants, not haughty rulers. And even harder to stomach is the fact that God is not a magician who will make all our wishes come true. In fact, it is us who have to submit ourselves to His will. But we abhor the idea of not being in control, living for others, and not only for ourselves. In an individualistic society, it is unthinkable to put our dreams on hold to help someone else. In addition,  in a time when ‘anything goes’, we are unwilling to live by the moral guidelines of righteousness set by the Bible. We don’t think that anyone has the right to tell us what to do. In short, unlike our spiritual gurus, God does not say that we will glide smoothly through life. We will inevitably experience bumps on the way, and at times God will lead us into darkness, in order to draw us closer to Him. Following God means sometimes accepting suffering and knowing that He will set everything will right in the end. But many people are unwilling to suffer even momentarily, because it goes against the world’s governing principle of instant gratification.

It is promising that an increasing number of people are beginning to realise that there is something beyond this life, beyond human understanding. However, we miss the point if we only accept the pretty side of the truth. While we are keen to invoke otherworldly spirits, we do not consider what will happen to us after we die. We put all our hopes in this life. That’s why FOMO is so prevalent. We want to experience everything to the fullest in this life. But our earthly life is only a tiny fraction of the life that God intends us to have. True, we may have to give up on some of our dreams, and embrace suffering, but all earthly discomfort and glory will pass, and we will eventually reach our final destination in heaven, where eternal happiness is our reward for a righteous life.

Unloved by Men

I am immensely grateful to my friends, who are supporting me in these difficult times, but I can’t help feeling that I need something more, something that only a man could give me. But despite my constant prayers, I cannot find this special person, so all I can do is channel my loneliness into poetry.

Across the land where lightbeams dance,

Humans live in eternal cheer.

But I dwell in the field of darkness.

The sun fled in horror, and the moon is afraid to rise.

Sorrow and cares weigh me down

As I lie unpursued in the muddy grass.

The kingdom of nightmares has triumphed,

The rain falls and gathers into a sea.

And the water flows dim, velvet

And black as every heart.

A candle-flame flickers and dies.

Tide rises. The old wind stirs sometimes.

But otherwise all is still.

Silence echoes through the land,

And vain despair.

But the tide rises

And rises

And raises me

And as my worries swim away,

I float, and melt into the dark.

Seawater tickles my face

And unites with my tears.

I would shriek and beg for help.

But all is useless

And unseen

And unheard

And uncared for.

While I cry tonight,

You’ll be far away,

And you.

And you.

And you.

And you.

And you.

And you will sleep

While I weep.

I slept once

By your side.

But that was a millennium ago.

The heat of your hand still warms my fingers.

The balm of your kiss still rubs my lips.

But your arms do not shield me any more,

And my head no longer belongs on your shoulder.

I grieve as I recall every bygone ray of hope

Until the whirlpool lures me in,

And I dive into obscurity.

When my shadow-self will be a memory,

Crowds will gather at my grave

And gossip haunts forevermore

The ghost of The One Unloved by Men.

 

Bricks

We all go through darker periods when we encounter difficulties or lose hope. And sometimes society puts even more pressure on us by expecting us to behave as though everything was fine. I reached the point where I don’t want to pretend any more. I want to be open, as open as I need to be, and to confess that I am not feeling well. I am fighting a war against the haunting memories of my injuries in the past that still exert a paralysing influence on my life. But, empowered by God, I am more determined than ever to defeat the dark forces, and to leave my past behind for ever. Art is one of my weapons, and even more than that. It gives me shelter, hope and joy. So I will march through the battlefield documenting my struggle through poetry, and I won’t stop until I’ll triumph over the army of shadows. Because my faith in God makes me stronger than my enemies. And deep down I hope that one day someone will read my posts, and feel empowered to fight their own battles.

My pillow is the granite of the floor

My blanket is the starless night.

Dead time floats in the air

As flies circle around me

Like black, fat ghosts of my past

And agents of hate.

Of my undying past that alienates,

And of dark hate that destroys me.

The icy hand of silence squeezes my throat

And the war of tears is suppressed

Before it even breaks out.

In the grey fog, all thoughts are drowned,

And what remains is the prick of pain,

Ubiquitous and yet unreachable.

Sometimes a word flies towards me,

Or a snarl, or a cruel laugh.

Their weight crashes into me

Before they hit the ground

And then turn to bricks.

Bricks that build up, unprompted,

Until I am trapped behind a wall.

A wall, how curious, that is transparent!

Across the wall there beckons the promise of joy.

But here I am a prisoner

Of the bricks,

And of my own soul.