I’m convinced it's my destiny to talk about destiny.
That comes from my grandmother. However, it’s not that I’m really
convinced and, of course, not everything I am comes from grandma.
Afternoons behind the living room window, looking out, looking in.
Mother is at work, she would say, and will be back soon.
Conviction is destiny, and vice-versa, the impossibility to be me.
When I say it’s a matter of destiny, I mean, what else can I say?
If a moth flies inside my home, it's because a spirit is trying
to communicate with me. I’d feel guilty not to believe the contrary.
Guilt is also a sort of destiny. If the message is about love I want to
quickly capture the moth in a poem. I could mention superstition,
how my head is heavy with uncertainties, how seconds move
like a thunderstorm, the way love chains instead of freeing,
how daydreams can lead to enlightenments of the soul.
Soul, a land without boundaries or road signs--all colours,
no colours-- any definition, in the end, will blow up and provoke
a second of blindness and I retreat to hills of unnatural greens,
hold a flower in my hand. Why does my soul feel so bad?,
a song by Moby asks. I see all of humanity roaming under
crescent moons -- where trees have become flowers,
flowers poems. The poems have no titles.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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I think the titles have no poems.
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You know, I've been thinking about that. Perhaps you are saying there is no on way of seeing/doing things. However, this is my profile as a poet, whatever that means.
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you both think too much
poems have names not titles
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from a certain point of view the narcissist desire to view your own reflection is loneliness
from the rest of, from the horizon, is seen as an inside gap; dug by the fear of change and need for comfort
dew against bare feet feels nice, refreshing
not moral or immoral, amoral
and amorality is ambiguous, sensorial and, like any undefined thing, in constant search for a title...
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