We Will Count to Twelve, and We Will All Keep Still

Now we will count to twelve,

and we will all keep still.

i love you all year longFor once on the face of the earth,
let’s not speak in any language;
let’s stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines;
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.

Fisherman in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victories with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
Life is what it is about;
I want no truck with death.

If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.
Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive.

Now I’ll count up to twelve
and you keep quiet and I will go.

“Keeping Quiet”, Pablo Neruda

I Don’t Know, Kid

thinking of how you light up the dead parts of me

i seem to know how to pick them

 

out of a bunch I picked the darkest one

who’d call up cancelling whatever whenever

just to watch me dance all night

 

my then insecure boyfriend asked what’s going on

 

i don’t know, kid

 

i didn’t. but i knew i was

in for trouble

 

you stared and stared and oh that gaze, i wanted

those eyes staring at me for the rest of my days…

 

daisy jones

I Can’t Grow A New Heart

kurt cobain baby

these stories, they come to me in dreams the first time I fell asleep since they told me you’ve fallen into flatline

I dream you

sometimes in colours, green and oranges, purples and blues, and not bleak nor dark, we are not in the shadows

in these dreams, our children they’re born. they’re not sucked to death, they’re not stillborn nor bled away

they live and we give

names to their innocent loving faces

the eldest has my eyes, her brother has your smile

in these dreams we’re not bitter

we’re not numb from pain

in these dreams you are standing tall

little daughter dances on your devoted steadfast feet

her brother clung to your arms, his head rests on your secure and sturdy shoulder.

he’s falling into another dream.

in these dreams, I dance with you under the chuppah

and you recite a long vow, a song we used to hum

before we went to sleep

about lovers

lost

and again,

found.

 

On birthdays that are wiser,

On Letters to Lovers Lost. 

 

Something Borrowed, Something Blue…

 

I imagined Mum running wild with her ponytail, perhaps clawing her way at a concert to get closer to Dad on stage. I never picture her as a free-spirited human being (or a groupie who jumps around at a concert). In my mind she was timid and sad right after she was born. I noticed she forgot to breathe at times, she was the epitome of absence. It’s hard to imagine her being beautifully present. Even to this day I couldn’t for the love of god see the very thing that made Father fell madly in love with her that he literally gave up for her his fame, and eventually, his life.