Archives for posts with tag: night

One year ends and another begins. The calendar
                flips a digit, and the unrelenting
        passage of time
marches on, oblivious
                        to us or anyone else.

I stand on your back porch,
a dying cigarette hanging languidly
                        between my fingers,
the smoke drifting lazy and silent
        through the still night air.
I stand there and I think
                of the year recently deceased,
of the highs and lows,
        of the mistakes and the wasted
                of the boons and the near-regrets;
and then
                                I think of you and your footsteps
come closer and closer from your kitchen,
        like the rhythmic beat
        of a waking dream.

You come outside and water your garden wordlessly.
I watch you and fight back a confusing rush of tears that come
                unbidden and try to fall free, as if imitating
the water surging from the hose in your hand,
the parched soil and the plants so desperately in want.
I fight them all back lest you look my way and the dam

I can’t verbalise all that I want to.
                        Not yet.
When you come close, I wrap
        my arms around you
                        as many times as I can,
and tell you you’re wonderful and kiss your forehead but
        even that feels grossly
So I just hold you
                for a while longer
then we go inside and to bed,
where a single standing fan tries to ward off
        the uncomfortable heat and humidity,
where we can’t fall asleep without
                holding each other in some way, so close
that your hands on my chest
        are my hands,
that my breath on your neck
        is your breath;*

and I try not to think too much
        about the terrifying sense
                                of happiness
coursing through me,
about the unexpected calm I feel
                when I’m near you, about
the fact that you really do

*lines 45-48 are a sort of appropriation of those found in Neruda’s Sonnet XVII. Lines 45 and 46 are very similar (almost identical); lines 47 and 48 are different, but only in subject matter. I’m not claiming them as original, but I simply had to use them. They’re so damn apt!


Sometimes, at night,

when the wind finds time to rest

and the warm air of a spring day forgets to leave,

I walk outside

and down to the beach

and sit

and listen to the music that wafts

over everything beneath the candle-lit sky.


Waves lapping softly at the shore,

rushing and receding, rhythmic, hypnotic,

tidal melody lulling me

into a state of pacified rapture.


The moon sings to me, pouring honeyed ballads

into my ragged ears, the dark water

that stretches out before me,

vast and unyielding, is her violin. I feel the notes

floating, graceful and knowing, into the parts of me

that need it most.


Rising and falling, I let go and give in

to the lunaescence of the night,

let it blanket me in celestial beauty

until the time comes

to walk back home

and write a poem about it,

                                about you

                                         and your


Her lunaescence will floor you, maybe,

as it floors me,


The metaphysical pull: I fall

into her orbit

and remain, completing

circuit after circuit,


gaining no ground yet maintaining proximity.

I’m kept at a distance, irrevocably so,

(for her gravity forbids

that desirous closeness),

I can only dream, day and night,

of lips and eyes—amongst

other things—fantasise

about a fateful day

that may never



The night is good fertile ground

for a sower of verses’, said Borges, once;

and so I yield

to a perpetual night,

bathing in the glow

of her ethereality, scribbling

like a madman;


for she is a moon, my moon,

watchful yet oblivious,

eternal yet mortal,

aloof yet present;

she is


Light fades into dark,

the hues of dusk wash over the horizon leaving

a moonless sky blanketing

the world,

my world.


I rise from a burnt out fire,

from a now-vacant warmth,

charred and growing ever colder,

not even enough remains

to use to light the path

that lies ahead.


I walk alone,

in spite of the belief—in spite

of the hand—I once



In the dark

and in the cold,

there is no solace,

only resignation

to the dark and cold reality

that dreams of love

are simply delusions

conjured from the infection

of hope.


A villanelle in amphibrachic tetrameter. The rhyme is a little off but the meter is near spot on. This was a difficult prison of liberation.


That lady at nightfall, that terrible beauty,

I yearn, I lay pining, bereft and desiring,

engulfed by her image, she haunts me, she owns me.


At night, when it’s dark, she appears so minutely,

voyeur I am not though I stand here admiring

that lady at nightfall, that terrible beauty.


Beholding the screen, how my stomach knots tightly,

her eyes look straight through me, my being is sighing,

engulfed by her image, she haunts me, she owns me.


My mind is awash with such thoughts, so unsightly,

I bask in her glamour, my being is wanting

that lady at nightfall, that terrible beauty.


She knows not of me, it would be so unseemly

to know of a longing that’s born out of nothing:

engulfed by her image, she haunts me, she owns me.


A biased contract that I signed so willingly

continues for now, so I’m left here admiring

that lady at nightfall, that terrible beauty,

engulfed by her image, she haunts me, she owns me.




I flew but not with the urgency

of old. The night air hung calmly

on everything,

in everything, and I drove

through it.


She pulled open the door, the cat

ran in;            moonlight

flowed in its wake, hitting her black nightdress,

caressing her with

celestial light,

in a way I never could. I stepped


and my arms enveloped

her. It felt like an age

since I last held her

that way:

so close,

so desirous,

so beautiful.


They finished dinner and paid and walked out into the night. The air was chilly but the warmth between them fought it off, preventing it from touching their bones. The right tram lay in wait on a road parallel to the one on which they currently stood. They traversed it and walked down a side street unknown to them where moonlight naturally compensated for the inadequate guidance attempts made by the steadfast street lamps.

They walked past cars that lay cold and dormant under that inky sky and she leapt from one to the next inscribing hearts on the windows, disturbing the perfect film of dew bestowed on each and all without discrimination by the night or some benevolent lunar goddess now forgotten.

As her fingers left the glass the symbols throbbed and swelled until they encompassed the car entirely like a blanket of mystical warmth and light. Metal shuddered as if brought to life and the vehicles started to glow and a faint buzz could be heard. A thousand bees circling the hive.

The ritual continued down the unmoving river of bitumen. What lay ahead was swamped in darkness and what lay in their wake, her wake, approached the luminescence of an infantile dawn. She began to falter. The other two joined her with a vigor rarely seen on that street. Their movements were joyous to behold. They danced silently between cars like maenads of some Bacchic rite, determined to complete a task given to them by no one but a task that when complete would evince mysteries hidden from mankind since the world was but a crying babe at the breast of the universe. A temporary life was given to those objects destined for a life of eternal and mundane inanimacy.

They reached the penultimate car and found it defiled. Some seemingly malevolent source had preempted their ancient ritual, preventing any revelation these mysteries might bring; mysteries that once grasped would bring a level of death and destruction upon the world no mortal could comprehend. They turned and witnessed the divine glow rush toward them, returning to where it truly belonged.

Behind them the tram bell tolled and they left that now-silently lit street with little comprehension of what transpired. They boarded the tram and left. Soon the memory of it turned to dust and was swept away by the winds of the present.

I’m sitting in Central Station, minutes after nine p.m. I’m sitting on the third allotment of benches upon the quasi-deserted platform dividing bays 2 and 3; only 8 and 1 presently house locomotives. An awkward silence pervades the entire complex, broken only by 144 sq ft television mounted on the northern wall, adjacent to a gang of vending machines, promoting childhood obesity and consumerism. The mounted colossus softly bathes iPod-less station dwellers, myself included, in popular music videos and commercial advertisements, promoting childhood obesity and consumerism. Read the rest of this entry »

%d bloggers like this: