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)
____________
Now
this moment, and
ages preceding,
Was it really
me
Is this me
breathing,
wondering
is this really
me
Who is me
Why do I hurt,
Fear, rage
is it really
me
_________
(r m drake)
____________
Now
this moment, and
ages preceding,
Was it really
me
One lone bulbul
mutters in halfsleep
its 3 a.m.
Is this me
breathing,
wondering
is this really
me
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
me
_________
What a strange thing!
to be alive
beneath cherry blossoms
(Kobayoshi Issa)
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.
ReplyDeleteWhen you suddenly find 3 a.m. by the sleepy birdcall and then you get hooked to the molten silence of the night
ReplyDeleteThis 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.
ReplyDeleteI 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.