The other day I translated some of my old poems from my mother tongue to English as an exercise. I don’t consider myself to be a poet. It’s probably the most difficult form of writing. There’s very little space and leeway to get your meaning across, to not lose the reader’s patience. It’s like that Didion quote about writing and dreams, but even more so: no one wants to hear your dreams and no one wants to read your poems. There are some rules that should be in place, the most important one to always strive for clarity. That’s what all the greatest poets do: the metaphors and the turns of language are simply the most precise way to get the meaning across. But there is always meaning, the reader has to trust in its (hidden) presence. Then poems become like little boxes to open, or math problems to analyze, or conundrums to solve.
All that said, I don’t really write poems like that, which is also why I rarely share them. I write them in this truly obnoxious and self-indulgent way where I am only trying to communicate with my own self, the me and I. Like people write journals - or the way they talk to themselves, with words cut half. Or the way they make food when they’re home alone and it’s Wednesday eve: some mess of things made out of the refrigerator rejects. Not to say that it isn’t made with love though, so do enjoy.
1. WHO’S THE RE-ARRANGER OF MY MIND? My heart is working. “I miss you. I miss you,” it’s repeating. In a state of emergency it keeps beating. I am tired, breathless and ill. It’s the past it’s ceaselessly cleaning. 2. GOD IS ULTIMATELY Some strange creature is hiding itself out there / and maybe not. A beam of light / slips for-ever over for-ever out / and past the mind. My heart a little mystery of mine. 3. WELL AND YOUR THOUGHTS? HERE THEY ARE - SPREAD OUT ON THE TABLE IN FRONT OF YOU Black lines, a single mind is awake. A pair of eyes observing in a sleeping space. A stir comes from the dark - a memory bleak of a hand in a pocket, then a hand in a hand. I’m a creature who derives and infers and concurs and the rest I keep locked in a room in my mind. 4. THE WORLD IS BREAKING DOWN TO MERGE WITH YOU - CLICK! 14 I’m lying in bed. My bed is in the wrong place. 15 Everything the color of you. What am I doing? I am dismembering. My mind is lying, it’s deluding me is what I’m presuming - and moving heaven and earth to bring myself back to the present. The sofa has disappeared and in its place are pillows made out of your ligaments. 16 Everything the color of you. What am I doing? I am remembering. My mind is lying, it is cheating more so than my room. You come in and sit down on the sofa. I look at you and you are looking past. My room has stopped spinning. My bed in the wrong place. I’m lying under the blanket and next to me observing the mime is no one other than the cruelest little god of mine. 17 Everything the color of you. What am I doing? I’m lying. My mind is hurting, it’s cheating more so than my heart. You come in, sit down on the sofa. I love him and he’s looking past. My room has stopped spinning. My bed in the wrong place. I’m lying under the blanket and next to me observing the scene is no one else but the saddest little part of me.
