Beneath the Summer Stars

The noisy filibustering
had thrust me out of doors;
there: tucked amidst the silenced hills,
the gypsy toiled away.

Her headdress marked with ancient signs,
magnetic, drew the crowds
exotic eyes aloof and dark,
aflame with prophecy.

And as I took my place by her,
a chill swept through my soul;
the Magyar sat across from me –
our eyes gazed potently.

She swept her skilful hands across,
the Tarok cards alight,
their cryptic symbols wild and strange:
and so she read my fate.

And as you watched me tacitly
the bitter breeze grew sharp,
tormenting my unready skin;
yet how I burned within!

Yes, as the gypsy’s tale had ceased,
I burnt with such a fire,
ignited by my destiny,
in fevered ecstasy.

As night wore on, I sat by you
and stole each glance I could
from those intense Uralic eyes;
they glanced at me so brief –

Despite the coldness of the moon,
which spilled across the steppes
and lit the gypsy’s secret craft,
bright hope had sprung in me;

but though I leapt into the flames,
the Fates could not be moved:
forever am I doomed to live,
recounting such a loss.

An Apology

The first time,
I recognized that awkward way
you tried to strike up conversation,
succeeding, yet failing –

The second, I thought
you would have forgotten:
I was busy stuffing my mouth
with free Timbits.
I did not look attractive
(this is an honest admission) –
I was startled
you even remembered
me.

It’s scary, wonderful,
knowing –
someone pines for me
as I languish for others.
A strange twist of fate that
we must all suffer at
each other’s hands.

I see you sometimes.
I would like to say, “Hello”
and explain,
but I cannot recall
your name.
Maybe success demands
that I break hearts,
yours:
and
mine.

Staregazing

Across this galaxy,
the multitude of light between –
a star shot ‘cross the sky!

The twinkle in your eye
ignites the ruddy brown in mine:
our galaxies collide –

Emboldened, bravely stare:
too curious to look away,
too startled to persist.

I want to be that doll
residing in that fiery eye;
I want to dwell in you,

the way you live in me:
illuminated in the sacred halls
of cross-stitched memory;

Oh, tell me – are you cold?
This blazing brilliance, upon
a skewed trajectory?

Or is this distant fire
a stare to set alight my hopes,
and do you burn for me!

Becoming: Immortal

Dare I say it?
Applauding, simpering,
fawning –
is This what It is?
I am disappointed.

Awards and recognition,
laurels, plaques, and accolades:
ah, to think –
this once meant something.

I have waded out too far:
the land I see is
seen by none;
I wander with the dead
in silent Purgatory.

To have died before a death:
to watch one’s body
trampled
while alive;
to be dissected, analyzed,
interpreted – to see this
failure to
“understand” –

It is not death in life we crave for
but quite the opposite.
Do not forget me –
but in life, let me be.

The grave is silent:
I cannot hear your
desecrations
there.

I like to party

I like to party.
The alleys of the mind
ignite,
corridors crammed with
Cirque de Soleil.
Dancers set ablaze
the brainstem;
Acrobats paint
this Carnival.

I like to party:
as do you;
together, we in fantasies
could speak in tongues,
but you:
in banal stupor,
drenched in booze
and music BLARING
escape
in your own prosaic
way:

but – I rather think,
I fly higher:
the trapeze is not enough for
me –

Special Note: This origins of this poem has a unique and strange origin.  I am a biomedical science student, forced to take a non-specialist English course for an elective.  The irony is that I actively write poetry on a daily to weekly basis.  Our professor introduced us to poetry on Monday, asking everyone to write a line of poetry on a scrap piece of paper.  He asked selected individuals to read their lines...my fellow classmates came up with the predicted horrendous things, such as: "Roses are red, violets are blue", "I am not good at poetry", etc. The line that stuck with our professor turned out to be the seemingly silly "I like to party."  He sent us an e-mail later that night, claiming to give someone a cash prize for transforming the first line "I like to party" into a poem.  Was it cheating that I accept?  Undeniably, yes.  Hence...I wrote this poem on Tuesday and e-mailed it to him.  On Wednesday's class, he noted that someone went "above and beyond" his expectations and that from now on, whenever this person was seen, they were to be referred to as "the first winner of the first annual English 1--- poetry competition".  He put a print-out of my e-mail on the document camera and it blew it up on two ginormous screens in front of the entire class.  To my horror, he then proceeded to spend a full 30 minutes of our 50 minute class praising and analyzing the poem word for word in front of the entire class.  And at the end of the dissection, the entire class applauded and I sank into my chair, exhilarated and thrilled, but mostly emotionally exhausted, thoroughly embarrassed, and overwhelmed.  The entire time I felt cold and I was shaking involuntarily...it was the strangest thing, like watching people trampling over my dead body or witnessing a live dissection of myself while still alive...fascinating, and really weird.  This is the first time, really, that my poetry was taken out from my personal quarters and disseminated with the real, living, breathing "public" - face to face (instead of through the impersonal Internet).  By the end of the class, I had the feeling that no one had read the poem the way I intended it to be read, but that it had taken on a new immortal life of its own, running rampant in a thousand different directions...I think the strangest thing is that I have never experienced any of the things mentioned in the poem - booze, parties, Cirque de Soleil, etc.  And now everyone thinks I'm some schizophrenic alcoholic.