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A collaboration over too much coffee.
coffee and pen

03 December, 2006

Tonight is An Unusual Night...

Tonight is an unusual night.
I have no memory of you,
I crave no more for you.

I do not feel grand,
no untied strands
to string them in a poem for you.

But once I was bitter.
I wrote poems about darkness,
drew blood
from my sunken hollowed cheeks,
saw my apparition in the mirror
a body of a poet, a soul of a whore.
But I do not feel that anymore.

I do not see any metaphor
hinge on your pendent, armlet, tiara,
on your resplendent anklet, mascara,
on your kohl, eyeliner, rouge,
on sundry embellishments of your beauty.
Oh! What a fool, what a stooge
I’ve been to believe
in a stupidity that must,
must always poetry
be a muse’s slave.

That must I,
I must stave in
every thought, every misgiving
on which I constructed
a world for you
in my half-drunken
poetic renderings.

I think I will, I say I did.

But now when I have killed
every essence, every single conception
of what I am, of what I be
I brood – is it love
that I do not wish for love
anymore.

© Dan Husain
November 6, 2006

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2 Comments:

Blogger SilentSensation said...

Hi Dan,
I can see your verse is getting better. Haven't been here in a while, so this comment is a compliment...
Ameeta.

03 December, 2006 18:11  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

I love this.

"Oh! What a fool, what a stooge
I’ve been to believe
in a stupidity that must,
must always poetry
be a muse’s slave."

You've been liberated! I wish such enlightenment dawns on me soon :)

Cheers.

12 December, 2006 20:54  

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