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they will teach you to turn yourself into a cemetery till you run out of real estate to bury the necessary vocabulary of your birth. they will dangle you permanently between the twin towns of longing & belonging; you will hang from their arms like a ripped kite; the loot of childish sport. you will forget your worth; settle to the bottom of the jar like old currency & pawned razors. they will teach you to burn your name under the bedraggled crescent of a frozen winter.

they will treat your beauty like incense; soft & foreign; a prayer that turns to ash at the altar. you will take a pair of craft scissors to your hair; cut away the wings woven into your tresses so you can forget the etiquette of flying.

you will walk around with eyes shut tight like skullcaps; they will turn your mouth into a city of curfews.

they will teach you that you are a common mistake history makes crushing the hands of steam filled clocks.

they will tell you, you are your mother’s illness; your father’s death. they want to turn the people you love into a rubik’s cube; tribes stacked color by color; block by block. they will steal the honey of your hope and make you wear your patience like a necklace of bee-stings.

they will inhabit and abandon you as though you were a pied-à-terre at the end of a conquered colony.

they will teach you that God is a four lettered word; a crashing curse, a blaspheme rotting your tongue to a blood clot; a callus at the pilgrim’s dirty feet. a havoc harvesting your heart.

they will try to teach you paragraphs of daily deaths as though your body was only meant to be read as a suicide letter.
they will teach you to equate getting lesser with getting better.

but, you will just remember this, my beloved anomaly :

you have a choice —
to write yourself alive out of the lupine grip of every iron bar or the hyaline pinfold of their mason jar.
the blackhole that can bolt the whole Universe is born from the debris of a dwarf star.

the God within is the God afar.
the God you have sought is the God you are.

Mantra for the Girl in No Man’s Land, Scherezade Siobhan© 

because the Phoenix builds a nest of scented branches, starts a fire and is
consumed by flames;

because the Romans saw Aquarius as a heaven-flying bird;

because the Maya saw Aquarius as Coz, the Celestial Falcon;

because the ancient Hindus called Aquarius ‘Garuda’, the Birdman; vehicle of
Vishnu, the Preserver;

Andy Brown, Audubon Becomes Obsessed With Birds
Ah the Raj! Our mother-incarnate
Victoria Imperatrix rules the sceptred
sphere – she oversees legions of maiden
‘fishing fleets’ breaking the waves
for the love of a ‘heaven-born’ Etonian!
Smoke from cheroots, fetes on lawns,
dances by moonlight at Alice in Wonderland –
no the Viceroy – the Viceroy’s ball!
Lock, stock and bobbing along on
palanquins to gothic verandahs where dawn
Himalayas through Poobong-mist,
the twelve-bore or swagger stick topi-and-khaki
bobbery shikar, Tally ho! for the boars
in a dead-leaf hush and by Amritsar
what a bang!bang! bagging the flamiest tiger!
Jackals, panthers, leopards, blackbucks
and swanny bustards, pig-sticking, Kipling,
Tatler, Tollygunge, High Jinks and howdahs
for mansion whacking banks, and the basso
profundo of evensong, frog song, poppy-pods,
housey-housey and hammocks under the Milky Way …
Daljit Nagra, This be Pukka Verse

Your wrinkled hands
talk to me
tell the story of a stolen childhood
the loneliness of women in my homeland

I look at your fingers
you place the leaves one by one on the tobacco shish
threading them like long beads into a necklace

Nazand Begikhani, My Mother Pictured Among Tobacco Leaves
you who are no longer in the world’s present tense
but in an excess of night with hidden doorways
 Amina Saïd, You who are no longer in the world’s present tense
you return to the place that I am
and the poem continues to write itself
Amina Saïd, Daily the sun slits its own ghost’s throat
Behind the large eyes the curved lips the curls
carved in relief on the gold cover of our existence
a dark spot that you see traveling like a fish
in the dawn calm of the sea:
a void everywhere with us.
 George Seferis,The king of Asine
Close the shutters: the day recedes;
make flutes from yesteryear’s reeds
and don’t open, knock how they may:
they shout but have nothing to say.
Take cyclamen, pine-needles, the lily,
anemones out of the sea;
O woman whose wits are lost,
Listen, the water’s ghost…
 George Seferis, Thrush
Perfume of silence and pine
will soon be an anodyne
now that the sailor’s set sail,
flycatcher, catfish, and wagtail.
O woman whose touch is dumb,
hear the wind’s requiem.
George Seferis, Thrush
The houses I had they took away from me. The times
happened to be unpropitious: war, destruction, exile;
sometimes the hunter hits the migratory birds,
sometimes he doesn’t hit them. Hunting
was good in my time, many felt the pellet;
the rest circle aimlessly or go mad in the shelters.
George Seferis, Thrush
Ephemeral issue of a vicious daemon and a harsh fate,
why do you force me to speak of things that it would be better for you not to know.
Silenus to Midas, Opening lines to George Seferis’ poem Thrush

i enjoy it when a line from one of my poems has been copied word for word. 

I am inventing a language which must necessarily burst forth from a very new poetics, that could be defined in a couple of words: Paint, not the thing, but the effect it produces. The line of poetry in such a case should be composed not of words, but of intentions, and all the words should fade away before the sensation.
Stéphane Mallarmé, Observations
Art has a double face, of expression and illusion, just like science has a double face: the reality of error and the phantom of truth.
René Daumal, The Lie of the Truth