Friday, April 21, 2017

and be tamed

and when you are lonely
put down the words
in flocks of rare birds that gather around

let the birds sing
in their own inimitable way
and when they are done with a verse

let them fly away
what you are about
is mysterious    and the poems that come

are given like candles just lit
in the dark room       where the silence creeps
the singing begins and I don't hesitate to fill the darkness 

I take dictation
from the great beyond
while others collect their riches

and assets      I write in a room
I lay down the flowers
on this silent tomb of dead language

when the words stop their tape 
I simply wait 
for there will be other singing lines

that will be flung
like life savers
from the far country where the Muse keeps

the singular lines
that speak to the mind
and form the irritants in the mind

in the morning when I wake
the night's last verse
repeats a refrain in my mouth like pearls

strung on a string
that I pull out to marvel at
what can compare to such treasure?

a singing silence
is all about    the darkness
erupts with the faint sounds from that place

and I am haunted
I can't be the animal in the zoo
that you poke and prod

nor can I be the domestic
that you hold
this is the fate of others    who are without sounds 

if you wish for fame and glory
get thee to a nunnery of commerce
and be tamed

if you wish for land and its ownership
sing in the bird cage for small fares
but if you want something of freedom

make a self contained nest in a room
lay the eggs of your poems
and sit on them      for decades of practice

are before you
the eggs stay sterile and break
the soldiers of time smash through the work

and you are left with nothing
the harbour of singing is filled with the failures
and what are you finally about?

some of us are given
what is understandable
and that restores them to sight

while others of us
sit in a room like shells
waiting for the irritant to create

I wish I had a pathway
or even a small idea of how to make
but all I do     is sit in a room

with the singing
like a blade 
that comes cutting through 

I wash the day clean of its troubles
and I ignore the world
I say to myself   my singing birds are all

I want a world filled with them
 I create    what I am able to
and I sit and wait
Amelia Curran- Tiny Glass Houses (with lyrics)

Armen Gasparyan (3):

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