Sunday, March 20, 2016

To me

Without a little madness I wouldn't be able to feel and if I can't feel then I'll lose my mind. And if I lose my mind then I'll lose my words. 

(r m drake)

this moment, and
ages preceding,
Was it really

One lone bulbul
mutters in halfsleep
its 3 a.m.

Is this me
is this really

Slowly, the silence
breaks into birdcall
its 4.30

Stars that burnt
so bright tonight
begin to fade

Who is me
Why do I hurt,
Fear, rage
is it really

What a strange thing!
to be alive
beneath cherry blossoms

(Kobayoshi Issa)


  1. At that early hour, when the world sleeps, before the first sleepy birds begin to call, it is easy to feel ethereal, and begin to wonder what is real and what isnt.

  2. When you suddenly find 3 a.m. by the sleepy birdcall and then you get hooked to the molten silence of the night

  3. This is a beautiful poem, and so timely. Last night I couldn't sleep and lay awake from midnight until 4:00 a.m. Instead of birdsong, several times I heard the rumbling of the coal train through the valley.
    I found myself thinking about my father's last days, about the meaning of life… and of death.
    Finally I gave up and read a "Backpacker" magazine before falling back to sleep.

    Wonderful post.