Concealing That Nocturnal Existence....
you realize that there is nothing that you keep
or can
at night a stranger of the house talks about
a departure
you listen as he is putting music to his flute
it is a sad one
it is like the sonorous sound of the rain at night
it is windy
the departure shall be early before the sun comes up
you never sleep
anticipating the excitement of the departure
there are only two of you
before the sun comes up between the two hills
both of you have already dissolve in the distance
blend with the trees, walk on grasses,
there are no traces, the two of you never exist
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Actually, There Is Still No One There....
it is when all of you
had left
this room when i am finally alone
that i
feel what departure must be
departure is synonymous with
loneliness
when it begins stabbing your peace
distance is prolonged
it is light embracing finally
the tunnel of darkness
you hear a tinkering bell
from a saffron monk
you peep from a leak of this
structure
still, there is no one there.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Conventional people are roused to fury by departure from convention, largely because they regard such departure as a criticism of themselves.
quote by Bertrand Russell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The departure lounge.
Many times,
I have been near the departure lounge.
Never knew the how or why.
Only too near tears to cry.
Time to leave.
Cliches on your sleeve.
Ready to be 'sold'.
Like cards up, an armful ready.
The departure lounge.
What is this place?
The only sensible option!
Many times,
I could have gone
Rather than see and play out-
Bitter endings.
The departure lounge!
A better place to be looking at
From a comfortable view
Than actually arrive at.
poem by Peter Vealey
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Pre-departure Dialogues...
now my words
have become
an ordinary conversation
at the pre-departure lounge
of the airport
everyone is anticipating
home minding the number
of their luggage and
checked-in baggage
there are talks
but no one takes them
seriously
on the level of
superficiality...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Every Dream
why must she never see the jealousy come down on such timid eyes at night
why must everytime i fall asleep only to dream of you
why must every night i wake at night in tears just thinking of you
why must every night i relive your departure when i say i moved on
why must i know this now when all along you've been in my heart
why must we relive this lie i know it will someday end
why must i wake every night to calm myself with a bare blades
why must that day never come that i can sleep without seeing your face
poem by Joshua Burckhard
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The Wasted Landing - thoughts from an airport strike
In the hour of our departure O Lord
In our beginning is our end
To depart is to arrive yet not to arrive
at the same hour and place
in some other time zone
and in our departing is our arrival
and to arrive is to depart from where we have not been
and to depart is to arrive at where we will not go
into the departure hall from where we did not depart
into the arrival hall where we did not arrive
and the end of all our departures is our arrival
that we may arrive at where we did not go
and depart from where we have not been.
now and in the hour of our departure O Lord
I Tiresias have foresuffered all
on this self-same divan, or tired banquette
in the departure hall from where we have not gone,
in the arrival hall where we have not arrived,
and all our arrivings are departures
and all our departures are arrivings
departing from where we have not been,
arriving at where we will not go
the sun shines bleakly through the window panes.
into the planes the trim staff come and go,
laundered into skies we cannot breathe.
'All flights are cancelled';
'Sorry Sir, this ticket is not valid for this flight'.
I Icarus have suffered thus
in Greece, in Rhodes, on all connecting flights,
in Delphi where I was not warned,
in Cumae where I could not go.
Passport Control. Do Not Pass This Point.
Too hot the sun of Greece that day,
the sun I shall not see.
'Arrival Delayed'. 'Departure Delayed'
A cold coming we had of it:
the baggage heavy, and the escalator steep,
the information scanty and the children fractious,
and the people. Oh the people.
Cans. Packets. Yesterday's papers from yesterday's travellers.
Sandwiches we have not eaten.
Tread softly for you tread on my icecream.
Now and in the hour of our departure Lord
poem by Michael Shepherd
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My Battle
After self-immolation,
what has been left with me
except the poems.
The tree will not speak now.
There was a good run-off
from the surface of golden leaves.
I will not meet the music
of sunset. There was a constant
flow of murmuring thoughts at night.
The narrative remembers the -
departure, but does not expect
anything from moon.
I will remain awake till
the dawn, then go
to a long sleep.
poem by Satish Verma
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It Will Be Necessary
she will sleep there
till evening
from 2 o'clock in the
afternoon
after lunch, she will not
be waked up
by anybody of the house
she must know
after all these hours
that no one is coming
it will be sad but it will
be necessary
it is inevitable
it is always named departure
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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How I Can Smell Like Dusts And Molds....
i take a walk this morning
in this village of trees where there are no houses of
dwellers,
i am looking for a peaceful place as i carry with me a load of some
thoughts heavy on my hair
i do not think that i am being punished with these
i am just trying to take my time
listening to my own footsteps
to the sound of the leaves on those grasses and trees
a river walks along with me
that is how i see it
it is a water traveler wanting a companion
towards a far end
that it knows too well for i am but new here
a lost stranger to his view
a novice of distance
i bring peace in my heart, i have set some pigeons free
my gifts to the balding mountains and to the hills with brown grasses
no pen, no paper, nothing about personal computers or cellphones
no signal, i am satisfied,
i am sucking air, words are carried with it in my nostrils
the river smiles, flows, and winds itself like a snake smooth on the grass
i listen too much, i become this earth
the river winds around my hair, birds are building nests,
the owl sleeps for the night beside my ears,
how peaceful is this place, how foolish had i been for all those years
hiding behind those rooms and rooms of books,
which explains why the river says that i smell nothing but
dusts and molds.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Winter Talks to the Spring
Listen
to the rain.
It talks
to the wind.
Through
the open window
the magic of the night
descends
on the room.
Listen
to the wind.
It talks
to the rain.
Your hands
are
so warm
your lips
are
so tender.
Listen
to the rain
the winter talks
to the spring.
Slowly
now the wind
and the rain
erase
our footsteps.
Enchanted
vapors embrace
our love
in
the oozing thickness
of the night.
poem by Paul Hartal
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Ch 02 The Morals Of Dervishes Story 12
One night I had in the desert of Mekkah become so weak from want of sleep that I was unable to walk and, laying myself down, told the camel driver to let me alone.
How far can the foot of a wretched pedestrian go
When a dromedary gets distressed by its load?
Whilst the body of a fat man becomes lean
A weak man will be dead of exhaustion.
He replied: ‘O brother, the sanctuary is in front of us and brigands in the rear. If thou goest thou wilt prosper. If thou sleepest thou wilt die.’
It is pleasant to sleep under an acacia on the desert road
But alas! thou must bid farewell to life on the night of departure.
A Little Learning As Time Goes By...
someday you will realize
there is no use of a name
influences fade like rust eating you inside your bones
there are parasites
residing inside your skin
someday you will know
how they survived all these
and then you begin to hate them
then yourself
there is this interlude of despair
the regret of having been born
between us the sea
the sound of the waves
monotonous all day
amidst us is this silence
of the shells
the smooth flow of the sand
that starts
comforting our chaos
deep within our
ears
someday you will learn to blend
with whatever color
and you will no longer search
what you are
and where you are
you are simply here and there
without a fixed point
you are boat designed with no anchor
fearing no ports
neither measureless oceans
someday you realize
that the only reason why we are here is that
we are moving
this departure that knows so well
where hello begins...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Wasted Landing. Thoughts from an airport in disarray.
In the hour of our departure O Lord
In our beginning is our end
To depart is to arrive yet not to arrive
at the same hour and place
in some other time zone
and in our departing is our arrival
and to arrive is to depart from where we have not been
and to depart is to arrive at where we will not go
into the departure hall from where we did not depart
into the arrival hall where we did not arrive
and the end of all our departures is our arrival
that we may arrive at where we did not go
and depart from where we have not been.
now and in the hour of our departure Lord
I Tiresias have foresuffered all
on this self-same divan, or tired banquette
in the departure hall from where we have not departed,
in the arrival hall where we have not arrived,
and all our arrivings are departures
and all our departures are arrivings
departing from where we have not been,
arriving at where we will not go
the sun shines bleakly through the window panes.
into the planes the trim staff come and go,
(they stay at Novotel Michelangelo) ,
laundered into skies we cannot breathe.
'All flights are cancelled';
'Sorry Sir, this ticket is not valid for this flight'.
I Icarus have suffered thus
in Greece, in Rhodes, on all connecting flights,
in Delphi where I was not warned,
in Cumae where I could not go.
Passport Control. Do Not Pass This Point.
Too hot the sun of Greece that day,
the sun I shall not see.
'Arrival Delayed'. 'Flight Cancelled'
A cold coming we had of it:
the baggage heavy, and the escalator steep,
the information scanty and the children fractious,
and the people. Oh the people.
Cans. Packets. Yesterday's papers from yesterday's travellers.
Sandwiches they have not eaten.
Tread softly for you tread on my icecream.
Now and in the hour of our departure Lord
*
(re-edited)
poem by Michael Shepherd
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To Music
Music: breathing of statues. Perhaps:
silence of paintings. You language where all language
ends. You time
standing vertically on the motion of mortal hearts.
Feelings for whom? O you the transformation
of feelings into what?--: into audible landscape.
You stranger: music. You heart-space
grown out of us. The deepest space in us,
which, rising above us, forces its way out,--
holy departure:
when the innermost point in us stands
outside, as the most practiced distance, as the other
side of the air:
pure,
boundless,
no longer habitable.
Translated by Stephen Mitchell
poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
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It actually was a complete departure having a woman playing M. I didn't realize at the time that it would be so noticed.
quote by Judi Dench
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An Island Torn Between Night And Day
it is your music that makes me alive
at daytime i listen
it is my lust that makes me wander
at night sleep becomes a stranger
lust does not do the talking
it takes you to places that you know you shall regret
it is your music that makes me reflect
about what i should not have done
i am an island torn between two surges of the water
on one tip there is the day on the other there is the night
somehow thinking about these makes me a paper where writings
have become so illegible
how can i read myself with my own eyes?
how can i walk without my own feet now?
i just want to go away and find a place where light is always light
where darkness like sleep becomes another stranger to me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Loner
she smiles
when provoked
when she is angry
she seeks a
corner
where her mind
cannot speak
when she loves
she keeps it
when she dies
she prefers
not to be buried
but just to be
cremated
she is as silent
as her ashes
on her
final departure
she owns the earth
spreads
far and wide
to the ocean
to the trees
to all the hearts of
beings
she is not
a stranger
anymore
she speaks now
truly
for you
and me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My departure from Hollywood was described as a walk-out. No one understood that I was cracking up.
quote by Gene Tierney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Stranger In My Own House
(a capella: she said: boy, your luck is running out...she make me feel like a stranger...in my own house)
I come stumbling in at a quarter to three
To the sound of my own dog growlin at me
Im scared to move or turn on a light
Youve got me creepin around in the dark
Like a thief in the night
Ive got no excuse, I should have known
Ive got no place to live
I never feel at home
I walk into the kitchen to see whats there
Im tired and Im hungry but the cupboards bare
Ive been working all day and all night too
I cant believe this is all I have to come back to
I guess Ill take a look upstairs, in the danger zone
I wonder what Im doing here
When I never feel at home
Im a stranger in my own house
Ive got the keys to the door
But Im still locked out
Im a stranger in my own house
Ill huff and Ill puff and Ill blow this house down
Cant be a stranger in my own house
I see the do not disturb sign on my bedroom door
What is this sheet and pillow laying on the floor
I wore out my welcome
I hear you loud and clear
Its time to get a few things straight around here
Ive got no excuse, I should have known
Ive got a place to live but I never feel at home
Im just a stranger in my own house
Ive got the keys to the door
But Im still locked out
Stranger in my own house
Ill huff and Ill puff and Ill blow this house down
Cant be a stranger in my own house
Ive got no excuse, I should have known
With a woman like you Im better off alone
Im a stranger in my own house
Ive got the keys to the door
But Im still locked out
Im just a stranger in my own house
Oh, honey Im home
Im just a stranger in my own house
Im just a stranger in my own house
You got a lion on your hands girl, not a mouse!
Im just a stranger in my own house
Im just a stranger in my own house
Well, somebodys got to go...
Stranger
Stranger
song performed by by Foreigner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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370.my Heart Is Stained With Utter Loneliness
departure has no color
but when you leave me
my heart
is stained with the utter
blot of
loneliness
it's color is black
it is night
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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