Adele Ne Jame – III
Unveiled into that Desert
After the pleasure of grape tomatoes and
heart of palm, the sweet
forgetting of an icy bottle of Moet—
Keiko Matsui’s Bonfire in the Piano
gets to me— so loud in the orbit of
the wind around us out here—
in the failing sunset
over the marina’s gold, over the water’s
gold shimmer. I say to you
caught up in the moment and
almost as if young again–
dance with me Frederic—oh please!
and against your deadpan stare:
come on darling, just once around the porch–
you know—the way we did at Hula’s that time.
But you, old man, bare chested,
still handsome wrapped in your fuchsia
pareo with gold horses– won’t budge
from your chair, or the inconsolable
loss of Paris no going back
will ever ease. Even as I walked
under the broken Wai’anae kiawe
alone for a long time. Emptiness takes us
into its craving, Ghalib says. Even so—
there is this pull of music,
this gold water, fragments too
if we want to remember– of Dubai
the brilliance of another sun
that spread its red-gold heat for us
over the sprawlling desert sand—
magnificent in its repetition of light.
And the Jumeriah sea, the current swirling
around us during the evening call to prayer.
Those bunches of white stargazers. Such perfume!
and your dark ephemeral power
I let wash over me like the surge of
the Arabian sea—almost as if there could be
a reprieve from this losing that happens
no matter what— I wish you had the patience
for the story of Majnoon, the ancient
Arabian lover who loved with such conviction
his friends thought him mad and gave him up.
When he wandered the streets
children mocked and threw stones.
Some say, as with Lear, his knowledge came from
madness. Don’t go unveiled into that desert.
Every grain of sand there is an atom of desire,
the poet says— even as he throws off his garments
and walks headlong into the sun.
So I let all the words go
into the failing light, the burning horizon
that would take us into its silence and
pull you close to me,
feel the weight of your disappointment.
Our breathing together now
like a small death or like a water prayer,
that might save us one more day, if we let it.
after Ghalib
After the pleasure of grape tomatoes and
heart of palm, the sweet
forgetting of an icy bottle of Moet—
Keiko Matsui’s Bonfire in the Piano
gets to me— so loud in the orbit of
the wind around us out here—
in the failing sunset
over the marina’s gold, over the water’s
gold shimmer. I say to you
caught up in the moment and
almost as if young again–
dance with me Frederic—oh please!
and against your deadpan stare:
come on darling, just once around the porch–
you know—the way we did at Hula’s that time.
But you, old man, bare chested,
still handsome wrapped in your fuchsia
pareo with gold horses– won’t budge
from your chair, or the inconsolable
loss of Paris no going back
will ever ease. Even as I walked
under the broken Wai’anae kiawe
alone for a long time. Emptiness takes us
into its craving, Ghalib says. Even so—
there is this pull of music,
this gold water, fragments too
if we want to remember– of Dubai
the brilliance of another sun
that spread its red-gold heat for us
over the sprawlling desert sand—
magnificent in its repetition of light.
And the Jumeriah sea, the current swirling
around us during the evening call to prayer.
Those bunches of white stargazers. Such perfume!
and your dark ephemeral power
I let wash over me like the surge of
the Arabian sea—almost as if there could be
a reprieve from this losing that happens
no matter what— I wish you had the patience
for the story of Majnoon, the ancient
Arabian lover who loved with such conviction
his friends thought him mad and gave him up.
When he wandered the streets
children mocked and threw stones.
Some say, as with Lear, his knowledge came from
madness. Don’t go unveiled into that desert.
Every grain of sand there is an atom of desire,
the poet says— even as he throws off his garments
and walks headlong into the sun.
So I let all the words go
into the failing light, the burning horizon
that would take us into its silence and
pull you close to me,
feel the weight of your disappointment.
Our breathing together now
like a small death or like a water prayer,
that might save us one more day, if we let it.
