Friday May 14th, 2010

Iq Dam (Di Fiato) in a Coffee Shop

Iq dam
Di fiato
Lo aspiro
Lo divoro
E ancora lo voglio
Senza smesso
Delizioso
Dolciamaro
Scurocremoso
Caldocorposo
Che non abbia smesso
Questo caffe'.

Ho
Tanta voglia di
Passar’ le dita
Attraverso
Addentro
Quei suoi
Capelli ricchi
Corposi, poi
Con carrezza mettendogli
Da parte, di
Scoprir’ il suo collo
Caldo
Cremosodelizioso
Assaporarlo
Aspirarlo
In un fiato
Con un bacio.

Iq dam
Di colpo,
Di fiato,
Lo immagino.
E di fiato,
Lo vedo.
E' arrivato
Il fondo alla tazza.
Le sue ultime gocce
Raffreddate
Ma dolci.
Ed addio
Dico io.

 

Thursday March 4th, 2010

I do not care to sleep

Have you ever been afraid to sleep
because you were afraid to weep?
In an effort to divert your mind
so painful thoughts might not find you
in that now dark and hateful space
of waiting?

For, when my mind is not engaged,
against itself it is enraged,
haunted by those shining eyes I still adore,
vacant eyes that still implore
me to save them from their pain;
asking what I have to gain
from a remedy that came too late;
she more resigned than I to her fate.
When I should have read the signs,
now robbed of her presence, I am lost,
still, empty with fear
whenever I give my mind pause.

No, I do not care to pause or sleep
to lose myself to dark thoughts,
to my own demons that creep
to drown me as I weep.

I shut my eyes.
I am enraged.
My mind, no longer able to delight
in peace,
is haunted by her tiny cries,
asking why she was denied,
when as much as she could
she tried, trusted me
to see.

Entrusted
with each other's needs;
As much as I was bound to her
as she to me,
As much as I was hers
and she was mine,
and she kept her promise,
I could not keep mine.
I failed
to divert catastrophe.
Dare I say, "She could not speak,"
when it was my own instinct
which was weak?

Still now, I cannot believe
we'd ever part;
for our souls, so interwined,
apart, I cannot divine
or find myself.

She should never have even had to try.
I should have known.
I let her die.

 

Saturday February 13th, 2010

Pebble

Was there a pebble in the road?
An otherwise smooth, comfortable ride,
from which
we enjoyed the same views,
relished the same air;
We ran parallel,
fell in step with each other,
animating conversation along the way.
Off and on we jumped
in sync with the bandwagon
with others sharing in our cheer.

Was it a pebble in the road?
Or were our own stops erratic
when no one else was watching?
Was there a pebble in the road?
Or were our own steps always out of sync
when it counted,
When no one else was watching?
When I was counting
on the ease we had shared?

We ran parallel;
But when we got off at the same stop,
you would not walk with me
though our destination was the same.
Where I made room for you
within my existing sphere,
you made an equal effort
to exclude me.
Sorry that you are busy;
I am too, though you never asked.
Friendship is but a crossing of paths,
sustained only as far as an affinity will hold
as it is stretched
across time and space.

Running hither and thither,
entrenched in our lives and routines.
Yet
we ran parallel
and often found each other
on the same train;
but you would not sit in the empty seat
beside me.

And then you ask why
I will not take pains to meet you.
Why?
Silly me,
I thought we had already met.
No one to be blamed?
Just a pebble in the road?
One that I had thrown, you say?
And let explode?

Perhaps.
But it has since eroded away
any way
that I risk taking now;
And I find an empty seat
more bearable than your company.

When I or others drove fate,
you came along for the ride;
but when I handed you the reins,
you cast them aside.
Though we ran parallel,
you only ever looked straight ahead.
And with me beside you,
we never really met.

 

Wednesday December 16th, 2009

De-Colonizing History through South Asian Dance

After being disappointed with author after author who erroneously claim to “de-colonize history”, I read someone who made me grin ear to ear to such an extent that I was afraid that the other people in the coffee shop would begin to wonder what was wrong with me. Projesh Banerji's observations and articulation thereof defeat the Orientalist gaze that scholars – even non-western ones – have inherited and to which I was beginning to fear we had been doomed.

For once, a scholar takes neither the arrogant Orientalist nor the plaintive anti-Orientalist point of departure. Instead of complaining, Banerji does something about it. He sinks his teeth into the matter while others merely dance around the plate. He describes culture and history in terms of itself and to its own merit, with reference to the West only as far as it facilitates putting things into perspective. In describing the developments in North Indian culture under the Mughals, he writes:

“The nomads, whose social life is the crudest form, have no need of the artist. The chief is perhaps the first gentleman as is the King of England. The individual who comes next in social importance is the witch doctor and more often than not he is the chief himself. He satisfies by the very nature of his profession the most immediate needs of a society that has no leisure for refinement. A musician among them would die of starvation and a lawyer killed before he is allowed to starve. In our [South Asian] society, religion occupies the foremost position; the high priest consequently is venerated beyond a degree of comprehension to the Western mind. We have come to regard aesthetics, if not as inevitable to the soul as religion, nonetheless as necessary as the institution of marriage or education. But while granting all the adulation and respect to the ennobling influences of aesthetics (and more particularly of dance) on the individual in society, society has relegated to its votaries and practitioners the lowest place in its folds.

“The result is that dance, even though it is a divine form of beauty, loses its aesthetic appeal on the audience and, instead, produces something which can be aptly described as libido. And added to this is the comparatively low level of cultural endowments of the dancers themselves. Dancers have, therefore, since the time they came to be recognized as belonging to a legitimate profession, perhaps lived as outcast[e]s, often indulging in promiscuous activities themselves, or, if the artists were females, came to be the object of amorous attention of those who could pay the price. While society has regarded dance as a sacred form of art meant for the propitiation of celestial authority, it has nonetheless never given dancers a high place in its hierarchy and considered dance uncongenial for relegated and respectful life.” ( Projesh Banerji. Kathak Dance Through Ages, p. 17, with minor grammar adjustments)

Although his work is fraught with grammar errors (even in its title!), it is nonetheless an informative and intelligent work, filled with names and quotations from the classical Indian past and that does not pretend there aren't any authoritative sources available before European colonization.

 

Sunday November 1st, 2009

Ocean Beach (a poem)

I feel. I love. I am filled with warmth.
A gentle breeze moves accross my chest,
spilling continuously onto my right shoulder,
creeps down my arm to my fingertips as I write.

I feel the sun's warmth pushing
into the left side of my body, heat the rings
of my fingers to the book
I am clutching and unleashes
its energy unto me, obstacle
in its generous path.

I hear the gentle murmer of friendly conversation --
Do we really always center our conversation
around guy drama? --
bubbling laughter coming in
and out
with the whish-whoosh
of the tide and the strumming
of a guitar from the man sitting
on the sand dune opposite me.
At a distance I see
figures: in groups, though mostly paired
or solitary seated
with book or picnic.
Or continuously traversing
the sandy expanse between
ocean and coffee shop:
bike, surfboard, baby or leashed dog in tow.

Guitar strumming, thrumming along
with helicopter propellers and ad-jets.

Simultaneously
I feel the gentle breeze and kiss
of the sun's rays trickling
accross my toes.
I sink my feet,
deliciously swallowed
by warm sand.
I sip my coffee. I feel. I love it. I am filled
with longing to share this solitude, this
reality absorbed. Intimately,
as if we were one.
Appreciated and affirmed,
full of a quiet that escapes divisions,
an awareness that exists only
in solitude
united.

 

Friday October 2nd, 2009

His Love

It's like icing with no cake.
A bumper-sticker with no car.
Spice without food.
Beautiful frames without lenses.

 

Sunday April 15th, 2007

This past weekend's weather demonstrates once again the characteristic finicky nature of Califonia climate -- particularly in the Bay Area. From 7am until 10am the region experienced a downpour that made driving a dangerous idea. That morning I battled my way down the 101 from the North Bay to San Francisco. I was indoors until noon, and when I stepped outside I was shocked by the beautiul warm weather that greeted me. Today was quite warm as well, and one may easily fall under the spell of "it's summer already", until we look outside the window to see a white curtain of dismal sky already setting in ...

 

Saturday April 7th, 2007

Most inhabitants of San Francisco are aware of "Critical Mass", that monthly bike ride that occurs on the last Friday of every month. I myself have never witnessed the event, but read about it in an article in the Chronicle and followed up on it on http://www.scorcher.org/sfcriticalmass/. Until yesterday, I had no strong feeling for or against Critical Mass. Yesterday, as I drove down Telegraph Avenue to take part in the monthly Art Murmur, I learned that the East Bay's Critical Mass occurs on every FIRST Friday of the month by inconsiderate cyclists who take up the road and do not permit other motorists to pass. At first I thought an accident was causing the traffic. Then I stretched my head out the window and saw a group of maybe 20 cyclists just a few cars ahead of me weaving in and out of the road, blocking traffic. One of the cyclists sported a sign on the back of his bike that read "STOP!"

I was so angry!!! Who do these people think they are? Granted, I am not against a monthly bike ride, or bike-riding in general. I actually love biking... it was my primary mode of transportation during college. It's good exercise and reduces pollution that would result if you chose to drive a car; I believe that if it is convenient, you should bike to work/school. It's true that cyclists don't have it easy on the road, but drivers of motor vehicles are not to blame. Just because you are on a bike does not give you special privileges... it does not give you the right to block traffic and aggravate others on the road.

To make a long story short, I quickly turned left and took the road parallel... I would have called the police if I'd had any minutes left on my phone. Grumble.