The Moonless Timelessness Of Yalda
The rustles of the rainy dawn frightens the bowing trees
And the stammering lances shear the curtains of somnolence
The sun was ousted from the smeared clouds along with all
The morning songs of the canaries and the gaunt earth regressed
Underneath the mellifluous whispers of the smoky blanket
The devious swaying of the pendulum staggered for symmetry
With its wavering subdued and unnoticed, it found its poise
In a vertical divide it lay asleep, and time was suddenly mine
A riddle hoisted in a queen's repose at the notch of my head
Pulling strings and knotting gnarled quiescence, of suddenly
The time I owned owned me in her nonexistence, and the equinox
Remained elusive to the treacherous moonless and pouring sky
Its enthralling spell beckoned a metallic silence and the absence
Of the thousand points that drifts to collect the quintessence
Of this perforated globe, and with all these reasons and unreasoning
Sank into the pits of evanescence; I came to face a different face of the day -
An endless night devoid of time, wearing a filigree of arctic sighs - a yalda
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poem by Norman Santos
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Tails of Bliss
The truculent sensation of auspicious sedation in a puncturing thrill
Is as evasive as the clear vesper skies flooded with constellations
Bliss, I calculate like the fragment of aeons spewed by the clock
With hands dancing into the euphonious crooning of decadence;
Bliss, I forfeit to fringe you esoteric definition in a mooring point
But I wish to enter your anteroom and never leave, anchored in your skin,
And when I climb and crawl in the craters and crevasses you hollowed in
Your plasmatic visage my flimsy hands and mind still can never grasp
Who you are; Are you the same for everyone? How do I claim you
And fill the depression in your mattress? Or do you claim me and shatter
The impassable ashen moonbeam of my every night? If then, come, now.
In the awning of this protracted wondering nurtured by the city's malingering,
I wonder if I will ever touch you, the wisp of your tail that had grazed me once
The whiff that was not recounted by any noble man, the pleasure that had
Established a sagacious demand for cynicism's arduous flagrance,
In the patina of bleeding pain I tasted of your poison making me grovel
For the oblivious thrill, the ecstatic bereavement of feel, the orgasmic static in the ears,
In this world of blind alleys where death walks with garrulous snores of the shadows
I yearned for your faceless name, futilely aborting the lies riveted in hoping.
The harsh gale of levanter had whispered a clout in my ears; a clandestine item
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poem by Norman Santos
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He and She
At this night where the year leaps and delves
A superfluous hurdle it was for He and She
As they lay in the bed of grass endlessly
Brushed by different weathers,
Of different shades, even different skies
Weaving a supple ball of yarn
From photographs and tumbled words
Embedded among the lurid constellation of stars
He, a penetrable glass resonating
The howling shrills of the wrinkling
Of the looming pillars when they trample,
Soused his head in a delusion-soiree
Ashen as the moon's tawny smears
Hidden in its harlequin beam
Similar to the one he enamels
The sooty façade of his fathoms
He, had wandered haplessly astray
In a highway succumb by oblivion
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poem by Norman Santos
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The Lion of the Dawn
The sun sliced through the ample sighs
Of the foggy dawn and grazed
The inert life in each
Quiescent leaves
Of the forest's canopy.
The world was a burning orb
In the misty horizon
Of its arid skin.
Every fraction started
Rousing into life,
From the blossoming buds
Of the wild bougainvilleas,
The elucidation of
The forest floor clad in moss,
The subtle tremble
In the boughs
Of the yawning tress,
The lifting waves
Of the hampered grass,
The fading of
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poem by Norman Santos
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Iron Eyes
Divulge yourself in my language
Speak of forked tongues that can masticate
Imagery with psychedelic blades
And swallow these swords so you can tell me
That I have eyes of iron
That I am blind but I can pretend to believe
That I can perceive in full colors
From sapphire, to eau-du-nil, to claret
And if you are malleable enough
To sink in my impermeability
And nibble on my waxing vision
Then I will permit you, in my elbow to my anteroom
Suffice enough to fracture my vision
And enrapture my eyes of iron
My eyes that can decipher decoys
My vision that can perforate veils and halos
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poem by Norman Santos
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Brothers in a Glasshouse
The silhouettes of many yesterdays
Floundered through the silent walls
Recounting how we roam these branches
Trespassing unnumbered rooms,
Filleting riddles from the harlequin moon,
Fishing through salient oceans,
Meandering with a pensive nonchalance
Like kings in a pompous parade
Bounded by a golden chain
And shorn by vindictive asymmetries
But days fluttered without transition
We molted from the visage of our reflections
With gauche arrogance pouncing
From the tethers of this glasshouse
Sending mordant shudders on its frangibility
Whilst wrathful malcontent is forged from
The angrily hissing flames of distraught
Ricocheting like bullets mangling
Through the cavernous but elusive vault,
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poem by Norman Santos
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Crossroad Entente
The muzzy gloaming watched
Two lovers gliding past
The old serpentine road
Catching the last streaks of fire
Both hands interlaced,
Both hearts on the sleeves,
Both surreptitiously stealing the charms
Dangling on both wrists
And before the road unwinds
They sealed treason with a kiss;
The road pounced in hubris
The lovers embraced defeat
As they fall in love
With the sole idea of it
And divulge into a treaty
With the intertwining roads.
Whilst downhill, past the museum
Where the boulevard was a jungle
And the illuminations were low
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poem by Norman Santos
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Treading The Choreography Of The Water
Underneath the cessation of the strident choreography
Of the waters that we treaded - now flat and asleep -
We harked the last note of the sparrow's garrulous song
And the initiation of the soughing of the swarthy leaves
That resembled the stropping of the daunted tongue
That we kept like keys to our clandestine doors
And unsheathed like knives that rose with alacrity
We mused and basked in this decade of vexing silence
Listening to the same stillness and interpolating architectures
But solving different equations with different visions
And as we speak through the grinding pebbles under our feet
We only harry the penultimate flare of the apprehensive dusk
So we can succumb into our individual darkness,
So we can bleed and revel in different places;
Because we can only be faithful with our infidelities
And this savageness that we deny and slept with
Burns out the hapless and sedentary peace that remained.
The clarity that scintillates with the luminaries
Are sundered preventing the eruption of the radiance
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poem by Norman Santos
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Void and Untitled
Asleep from November ten
To November eleven,
I dreamt of being alive.
A sunset can extend as far
As eternity without you
Your absence in your presence,
Your presence in your absence
The transatlantic distance:
One heartbeat away
So I faded behind
Your taciturn pace,
Your beautiful face
And I watch you grew brighter
Like an imploding sun
Garish light, I know this
Is but another guise
Egoistic barricade, I know this
Is how you sully yourself
So I gave up with your game
You know my faith, why test?
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poem by Norman Santos
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We Incinerate Lights with Fragile Mirrors
Do you know what basks behind your ears?
With your supple hair of lightning tucked lightly
Do you hear the sirens' screech and fluster you with fear?
That you reduced yourself in the speculum of a melody.
Have you been in the river of you veiled ears?
Where the conversations live and die a riddle
Resonated in reflections, ebbing not to err nor stir
The somnolent glow grazing the little shafts to bristle
At the floor of the river, the bosom of the mirror
Rouses an opalescent light; a wafer of a prism
A lamp discordant from the puissant lightning roar.
Sheathed in those ears: a hero to somnambulism.
Do you know what clings on your parting lips?
That dies with the deception of your dissenting teeth
Do you verbalize with tales of wars, tragedies, or assailed ships?
That your tongue flounced and fumbled towards an empty pit
Have you sang a ballad and extemporized metallically?
Painted with maroon hues and festooned with ivies;
A crowning barb of virulent thorns, lackadaisically
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poem by Norman Santos
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