Sometimes I just feel hungry
So hungry that I can’t make out
If that’s my hungriness or thirst.
If that’s crave for womanhood or desire for love
If that’s fear of the dark or dependence on the light
If that’s my silence or am speechless
If that’s love or lust.
If that’s forgetfulness or forgiveness that I seek
If I am walking ahead or running away
If I am looking for an answer or waiting for a question
If that’s loneliness or fear of falling a prey to addiction.
There's A Hole In My Sidewalk
ReplyDeleteBy Portia Nelson
I.
I walk down a street and there's a big hole.
I don't see it and fall into it.
It's dark and hopeless and it takes me a long time to find my way out.
It's not my fault!
II.
I walk down the same street.
There's a big hole and I can see it, but I still fall in.
It's dark and hopeless and it takes me a long time to get out.
It's still not my fault.
III.
I walk down a street.
There's a big hole.
I can see it, but I still fall in.
It's become a habit.
But I keep my eyes open and get out immediately.
It is my fault.
IV.
I walk down a street.
There's a big hole.
And I walk around it.
V.
I walk down a different street.
Hunger
ReplyDeleteIt is the gnawing within the silence
of the deep body which is like
the pool a waterfall replenishes
but can never fill.
The watery room of the body
and its voices who call and call
wanting something more, always more.
Once in a dream, the trees in a peach orchard
called out saying: Here, this bright fruit,
hold its roundness in your palm,
and I held one, wanting
the others I could not hold,
as the light fell through the trees,
one cascade after another.
Now, the wind from the hurricane
that veered out to sea,
and the hard rain blow through the space
where yesterday men felled the spruce,
its height and beauty, for no good reason.
Where it was, only emptiness remains,
and the stump level with the ground.
The wind finds its own place
and waits there holding its breath
for a moment, calling to no one,
surprising us by its stillness,
surprising even the rain which comes in
to my house through the untidy gardens
where it has been sending its life breath
over the dying mint and blood-red daylilies.
Summer is dying and I grow closer
to the shadow moving toward me
like the small spiders
that inhabit and hunt in the corners.
And the wind stirs, rattles the panels,
singing its own hunger, its own water song.
- Patricia Fargnoli
O great life, no more poems,
It’s time for strong hard prose
Let sweet rhythmic beats be wiped away,
Let the hard hammer of prose pound .
No need now for poetry's tenderness,
Poetry! You are granted permanent leave.
In the kingdom of hunger the world is a prose
Even the full moon appears to be a toasted roti.
-Sukanta Bhattacharya