Sentinel Poetry (Online) #58 ISSN 1479-425X

THE INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL OF POETRY & GRAPHICS...since December 2002

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Munayem Mayenin

 

A Temple for his Music

 

Midnight Paris Metro carries the night

Within its double-decker breast busily

Shooting through the tunnelís pathways

Busy and sleepy people running rustling

 

Like wind-blown leaves all fathomed in

In we go and out we come rush rolling

And there he was serenading the dusty

Air filled with floating footsteps playing

 

His Chinese musical organ some sort of

Violin sitting on a stool in front of his open

Hat gathering proceeds of peopleís pity

He plays closing his eyes and the music

 

Flows out rising upward like an invisible

Vine swinging in the free air of his mind

A poignant tune sad and deeply piercing

He plays and does not look in case his hat

 

Looks at him with the eyes of the coins

Reminding him he will have to come down

And count his fragmented printed notes

In silver and paper all polished porcupine

 

He carries on playing through and through

Ignoring the space and place where he was

Rooted: unwelcome, hatched and fabricated

Oh! How I felt the need to kick that hat off

 

And plant a temple for his music to fall down

On and find a seat a home and there he is

At peace, happy, playing and would not

Need to close his eyes to stop seeing that hat

 

 

Be Mindful

 

In there you are

Busy-bee bent on bright stuff

Forking out illusionsí dust

There where you tell yourself

Hang on there you are going

Somewhere tropical and top

 

In there you are

But-end-proof bold and boisterous

Gathering mindful momentum

In a space that only knows

How to become a shark

And gulp anything that moves

 

And you are there chairing

The futile fossil of firebrands

And dreaming of dead dreams

That would never fly

For phoenix they are not

 

In there you are

Busy-bee bent on bright stuff

Be mindful and mind the gap

For the bright stuff might be wrapping paper

When in need of warmth fires fail there.

 

 

This Image

 

This image of myself lying on the grass

Outside the National Art Gallery like Jesus

On the cross holding onto the cool grass

Jesus the man not the prophet I thought of

 

In painís grasp I looked up to the sky spread

Out smiling sparkling blue in a flood of lights

And there was that big bird high up flying

In the majestic mind of the ocean-dome-sky

 

On his back the whole universe thinly stayed

I facing him exactly resonating his image on

My back the earth: both facing each other on

 

A distant relation: magnanimous an image that

I could grasp from somewhere where my being

Became part of the whole and won the pain over

 

 

Telescoping your Life

 

They say: here you are with a lens

Magnifying marked objects: oily

And ornamented with absolute

Fanciful marketís sure-fire moulds

 

They say: here you are to press these

Bankrupt buttons and then add the

Final one: fully accommodating to give

A total and say: twelve twenty, please!

 

They say all this and offer you a sheet

From where you howl in and out your

Dayís diagram: fully functional you are,

 

As a professional: your smiles and words

Are versioned, shaped and all you need

To do is to pick and use the right one up

 

 

The City Night

 

The city lights bleach out the darkness thin

At night and on her rather fair skin she holds

Her smile on nothingness; still making it visible

While lights work on the slates of things, showing.

 

One sees their works reflected on otherís craft;

Lights for things to be seen against the breadth

Of darkness while she presents the void in a

Transparent blank: both in need of being seen.

 

And the buildings that stand like aerial giants

With electric eyes shining out their rays through

From their bodiesí exterior expanse: mute, mindless.

 

As the night thickens in dry and dusty city air

The space transforms itself and becomes almost

Like a multidimensional glass house: static, still.

 

 

On bare River Seeking

 

I seek and a subtle response is what

Offers me a flow of something that I

Could not handle: joys remit is limitless

Yet there comes the low tide: bare river

 

Although there still shines the silt in

Happy sunlights that transform the surface

Of the glowing mud where a bird seeks

With deep confidence that its breast could

 

Hard-handle: something, anything to gather

For life, her compounding connections to it

I am spell bound in the bounty of, even this,

 

Bare river, beyond low tide, riding on lightsí

Loving care and the fairs of human affairs

Carry on gathering notes and boats: seeking.

 

 

 

 

Munayem Mayenin

Guest Poet

 

 

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