dreamers strange cont.

by the time we arrived, the coach had just departed

put down the pen, before the story had even started

and the sun set over the fields, and winding rivers I once traced

like the back of my hand, 

burnt out, erased

dispersed like grains of sand, 

in the wind and it submerged 

the sun, under the downs

under the downs

to wander, 

through all these towns

dreamers strange

brighton rock

dreamers strange

that winters eve

dreamers strange 

that stolen ring.

i told her to give it back 

a shell in waves 

swathes of runners

dreamers strange

the old church, the smell of incense

dreamers strange

to be / perpetually

LoSt in TrAnsLatioN

TRANSLATE 

THIS 

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;osifh ;FJ C'OIJHF OICYSGVFBDUIXGF

LSDJFH LSAIUD FHCSILUFHPS'D]QW[;EL

dreamers strange
dreamers strange
dreamers strange

streets are there

strangers

& dreams

strange dreams

dreamers strange 

camden sunset 

squatting by the canal side

reliving youth, them lost days

so many souls, 

in the end, we always part ways

 there with georgian kindreds

 i remember 

there in the tropics

i remember

there in the midst of our conversation

about the valleys of Northern Pakistan

i remember

the gullys  

i remember

the beggars, the elders, the saints 

the writings on the wall, now so faint

i remember

the pain, the loss, the regret, the elation

the frustration

the laughter the tears

the tears, the tears,

the years, the years the years

eastern sunsets, western sunrises

the smog, the minarets, the mountains

i remember i remember i remember

new beginnings and tragic endings 

i fucking remember

and each memory hurts

and so I try to forget

stay occupied

to not let

myself settle in them. 

i learn to give hours freely, 

to elongate 

tour guide life

to witter away time 

to go the long way around 

to give hours freely 

to avoid being alone

with these memories

that hurt. 

and another 

and another 

aimless wander

under the sun

under the moon

kings, temple, brixton 

where i end, i find another 

two's company, 

a canteen friend

she came by the secret garden

with her friend, an irish man 

we went by the hamsters grave

we went by her flat, 

searched maps and traced crystals

traded stories, briefly

i forget

everything is changing again

and I had a dream

after a long time

I had a dream 

and when I later went for a swim

my dream resurfaced

and i remembered

everything again. 

the zoo. the chiraya ghar. eight years.  

and my heart hurts so much sometimes

when I think about things

when I think about the past, and souls 

once close to mine

to leave and to be left behind

and sure life is so beautiful

so beautiful 

incomprehensibly beautiful

fucked up

beautiful (light comes out of darkness, it emanates from it)

what else is there to do

but to keep moving 

everything is changing again

i wish i could tell you about it 

god, how i wish i could tell you about it

the sea is beckoning once more

georgian mountains

mountain dwellers of georgia

in possession of 

unassuming luminosity

cloaked in hoods, 

in possession of 

an opaque curiosity 

to brew tea

to herd sheep

to weave baskets

and to arrive in this city

that makes you question

everything you are

and everything you believe

this city leaves you wanting

it leaves you wanting

just a little while longer

until you understand

and then you're part of it

the way you are the mountains of georgia

you're part of its story, the glory 

the grandeur 

the grit, the manure 

fewer prophets

have emerged from this land

living london, a decade on, still living

i almost forgot

what it felt like

to be free and connected 

to see beauty manifest

i neglected
that part of me 

traded in wonderment 

in search of riches

a stability that
destabilizes

took a while to
realise-this

took a while to wander 

to wonder, to wander
flash of lighting, roar of thunder

it took a while 

I almost forgot

what it was like

to write to live to be 

free

         from a certain branded

freedom
it took a while
days that felt like lifetimes
it was the right time
to return to 

the cemetery

 to Apollo

the cold night bus

joyous sorrow

east street 

recalling memories

of the glory days

with comrades of old

its all coming back to me

these days

back to being 

a wandering bum

flitting in and out

of social gatherings
yet to succumb
to earthly weariness

brixton to kings cross

relearning 

the art of the doss
relearning
how to be lost
(the found kind)

Alhamdulillah

i almost forgot

what it felt like

befriended by the blind

met a couple on the bus

the 131 bus to kingston

they were both blind

the woman sat next to me,

the man said he would prefer to stand

he said he liked to stand on buses

she started talking to me

the woman with black glasses and a white cane
good humoured and kind
she told me her name
what was it?

she said she got into a ski accident

she smashed her head

she said at least she was doing something she enjoyed
at least she had led
a good life, and it continues

not a trace of bitterness

she said it could have been worse

 she’s come a long way

she’s going to the gym

she has him, 

she has a partner

he had brain cancer as a child

and he went blind

but he's a pro at karate and all sorts

so spirited and happy

subjectively, she said life is what you make it

she has 2 boys

she told me about her old job

I didn't understand it 

she told me her name

I can’t remember what it was

Jacinda or something

she asked me a lot of questions

and then it was my turn to speak

tongue tied, I half stammered

not knowing where to look

from where he was standing

he leaned over to the direction of my voice

and listened to my replies

from where she was sitting

everything I said sounded flat and empty

(bland and repetitive, to my ears alone perhaps)

I said I’m taking the Japanese students bowling

I said I’m some kind of guide, 

but not like she was

and soon our conversation dies

and its ashes hang in the air

choking, I TURN MY GAZE TOWARDS THE BUS WINDOW

AND STARE,

INTO THE NEW MALDON DISTANCE 
blessed to have encountered them

two strangers, who found love in each other

two blind strangers

who make the best

of everything they have

(she said it could have been worse)

not a trace of bitterness, it could have been worse

and my heart burst.

it burst

(I beg of the earth, to swallow me whole

unworthy of this precious and beautiful life 

unworthy of being befriended by the blind)

I remember then. WE ARE BLIND.

http://sysprints.blogspot.com/2013/12/we-are-blind.html

nero man

(prelude)

a man in cafe nero

unearthly and wild

yet meek and mild 

perhaps lonesome 

what was his name again.

he said hello when i passed him

i said hello back and smiled

he said you have a beautiful smile

I took a seat and after a while

he presented me with a poem

a poem for the smiling woman

I took it and said thank you

and he proceeded to pour 

out the contents

of his head

he's led 

a rich life

learning though learning is difficult 

because he has learning difficulties

a rich life, 

learning to building the self 

through never ending strife

/this being human/

the way we arrive 

in the places we arrive

my phone rang and I told him I had to answer it

I wished I never answered it

and instead kept listening to him

that man meek and mild 

outspoken, almost riled 

perhaps, so lonesome

nero man 

what was his name 

how strange, 

this one precious life

may we learn to give our time

to the ones that are in need of it

may we learn 

to give for nothing.
and love in the same way. 

means no worries

whats good 

wandering in mayfair

the lost river tyburn 

has disappeared

the antiques have been shifted

hedrix's house

                        has half drifted

away, whats good

tea shops and memories

marble arch

a bruised heart

what's good 

not my organs

whats good

the town hall hotel

stories of geesers

and pie shops

and lots and lots

of other stuff

what's good

wandering in bethnal green

purposefully

what's good

wandering around india house

purposefully 

what's good

the silence of savoy chapel 

watching scar throw mufasa 

to the wilderbeast again

but everything was different this time

i left during the intermission

made hakuna matata a new mission

whats good 

the sunshine on the river

the city's landmarks glinting in red

bled, gold and crimson

whats good

not my organs

but i gotta keep 

going going going

whats good 

not my organs

it was snowing snowing snowing

what's good

battersea arts centre and busan
essoira across borders
tears at the secret garden
ace hotel, rain
the odd old man, a bit insane
handing me a sweet poem in nero
what's good

it's all good

a week 

living london

guiding and being guided

it's all good
(and verily with hardship there is ease)