Monday, November 06, 2006

Tonight is An Unusual Night...

Tonight is an unusual night.
I have no memory of you,
I crave no more for you.

I do not feel grand,
no untied strands
to string them in a poem for you.

But once I was bitter.
I wrote poems about darkness,
drew blood
from my sunken hollowed cheeks,
saw my apparition in the mirror
a body of a poet, a soul of a whore.
But I do not feel that anymore.

I do not see any metaphor
hinge on your pendent, armlet, tiara,
on your resplendent anklet, mascara,
on your kohl, eyeliner, rouge,
on sundry embellishments of your beauty.
Oh! What a fool, what a stooge
I’ve been to believe
in a stupidity that must,
must always poetry
be a muse’s slave?

That must I,
I must stave in
every thought, every misgiving
on which I constructed
a world for you
in my half-drunken
poetic renderings.

I think I will, I say I did.

But now when I have killed
every essence, every single conception
of what I am, of what I be
I brood – is it love
that I do not wish for love
anymore?

© Dan Husain
November 6, 2006

11 comments:

Mone said...

Love is everywhere,
sometimes
you just need to open your eyes.
A love,
clinging on somebodys soul
was no real love
after all.

Nice poem Dan, I like it.

iamnasra said...

This so touching loved so much

lovemarks said...

I REALLY liked this poem! Had told you earlier, but when I re-read it, just liked it some more...

Blue Athena said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
asuph said...

dan,

a lot of your poems remind me of Charles Bukowski... i don't know if i've told you before, but they seriously do.

Oh! What a fool, what a stooge
I’ve been to believe
in a stupidity that must,
must always poetry
be a muse’s slave.


Ah! well, obviously it's not the poetry, but poets who are the muse's slave, no?

hey btw, can you open the rss feed of your blog? there seems to be some problem there...

regards,
asuph

shikha said...

great

ozymandiaz said...

Is the muse love?
Is love a muse?
what tendrils tether our emotions with our minds
struggling for words in a wordless myriad are we

it is said that to the thinking man lofe is a joke, and to the feeling man life is a tragedy. Perhaps it is the poet who luaghs and cries at the same time. perhaps a good poet illiterates this...

Anonymous said...

The imagery in your poem is so beautiful. It does not matter if the subject wore an anklet, or mascara, or not. It is art that matters. Too often, the subject of a poem, a book, a piece of music, does not like the work because they believe, not that it isn't worthy of them, but that they are not worthy of it.

iamnasra said...

Hope you are well...Been awhile no new poems..

iamnasra said...

Greeting from me hope you have happy eid and happy new year

nomadicsoul said...

good stuff