a dead word
a live hand
its body building
like it was human
like a house
like a horse
its head the universe
at night
with all its lights
its eyes kaleidoscopes
of randomness
weaving into its face
its heart pounding
and stopping
its stomach
both shelter
and volcano
its legs
walking alone
with a rhythm
only its ears hear
its hair stands
its tongue trembles
its fingers write.
has grown thin
like smoke
words are water
planting
words
that grow
in the silence
some become poems
some fade away.
The above poem is from my first book Reeling (2012).
the heaviness
the dullness
dropping dead
in you
the silence of the mind
is a kind of thought
a feeling
a poem whose
words are
looking for you
and finding
you somewhere else
closed in some
unhappy form
sinks further in blue
calling this quietness
your music
and finding how
this broken emptiness
can give shelter
calls it home.
I imagine
what they
look like
in my mind
are they red black
is my mind
is it wet
is it like a mouth
words are all
I have
I tell myself
in my cave
I pave
my way out
with words
in the morning
I sing with the birds
so musical
in the sky
and with the clouds
I fly
to this
quiet place
where there
is no sound
and the world
looks so round
so beautiful
so delightful
so full
of enchantment
words make me forget
this life on rent.
The above poem is from my third book The Branches (2015).
you’re not going to write a good poem
I tell myself
let’s see
I answer
typing with two fingers
you always do that
I tell myself
and I see the sun
above the ocean
in my mind
the orange brightness burning
like no other colour
the water so beautiful
in small sweet curves of transparency
my heart grows joyous
like the moon shining
in the dark
and I feel so happy
are you not like the deer then
I ask myself
silently watching
the world
and I wait and listen
while the sparrows chirp
outside my window
and a train goes gliding by
so silently
like a ghost skating
in the morning air
and I type with two fingers.
The above poem is from my third book The Branches (2015).
have appeared
out of nowhere.
A lion’s cave
lies quiet
under the earth.
There are two skies
skiing with the clouds.
The mind multiplies,
breaks down,
goes to seed,
which the lion eats.
Have you heard
his latest song?
It’s about a sea green giraffe
dancing in his pond.
The above poem is from my first book Reeling (2012).
the poem
went out
into the street
even before it began.
The poem stretched its legs
and walked.
Soon, it had to
stop for breath.
Tired now, it wanted
to go back home,
but had forgotten
the way.
So the poem dragged itself
to a nearby tea seller
and sipping from
a tiny glass,
started singing:
Golden tea I really like.
Steaming, golden tea.
The above poem is from my first book Reeling (2012).
I look at my face
in the mirror
and it’s a waste
what is the world like
just sunlight and green
and grey and blue
and white
and me
how I feel
so many buildings
I tell you
just so many
what a knot
O by the way
when they fall backwards
what a tumble
they make
how you go
through air
straight outside
and then once again
inside this jumble
see my hands
my fingers
how the index
and middle one
tremble
see this rain
in the morning
this silence this day
my ashtray
my shoes and my socks
inside them
my black shorts
hanging from a hook
so lifeless
the chugging train outside
blows the sky apart
I see the light blue struck with silver
shimmering like water flowing
and then I find myself in this boat
beginning to float
travelling to new places
that play
with the barriers of my mind
untying anything
in a bind
of those things
I now sing
ding a ling a ling.
is such
it is barely there
go to the sky
I tell it
and there it stays
days
on some cloud
then back it is here today
with the rain
and the silver train
isn’t it beautiful
I ask myself
the buildings
and there
across the spread
of the city
in the morning
through the myriad maze
of windows
the colours of whites pinks and blues
all standing in a wide semi-circle
making me think of the sea
through the trees
the birds chirping
flying in flocks or singly
in the sky
the people
in the still empty streets
through my house
through the Coleridge biography
I finished
before breakfast
through the newspaper
I read after that
through all that mad horror assailing
through my bath
and finally through the words
of this poem
my mind has come back
to me.
The above poem is from my third collection The Branches (2015).
Dominic Alapat 