it's complicated
you said and sighed.
you're telling me
i thought and sighed
it's life though
the complexities
the divine comedy
of navigating
the hormonal seas
and synaptic byways
foraging for tender moments
enchanted by the
attractive promise
of swelling hope
and yet, in the end,
mystified by...
well, most of it.
it's called 'everyman's dish'
a simple steaming pot of three
or maybe ten ingredients
lentils sorted to remove the wee stones
the cracked wheat of the bulgars
onions chopped and caramelized
some kind of stocky brothy
almond milk bullionaire chicken
or beef or just plain old water
spices and garnishes steeped
with love and tradition of the
very region you are named for
i have never tasted yours...
they say is the best ever, here
or there, in this hemisphere
or that, heck, maybe the planet
but i have been nourished, often,
by the mujadara of your soul
by the mujadara of your heart
the mujadara of your very being
with every little look you give
every little thing you say...
every beautiful note you sing
laden, dripping, with joy or pathos
even better when it is
both at the same time
if…
i could only imagine it
i can’t even
an ideal, a concept,
a perfection i want
to improvise for you
better than any poem
better than any letter
better than any
mere word or melody
a taksim, a chant,
an older than old-school lament,
the good kind, that brings us to
a peace you so need and deserve
it’s there, etched in our souls
coded in our dna
i am not good enough
or worthy enough, not able,
to extract it and even less able
to play it…
it is there, i feel it
it is sweet
but not too sweet
it is sad
but not too sad
it is joyful
but not very happy
in a maqam no one
has ever heard or played
but sounding so very
familiar
9-28-12
it was that kind of day
i should have writ a poem about
i should have strolled
golden sunshined through
crunch leafy paths amid trees
not quite in full color
me khakied and
sweat shirted
almost camouflaged
thinking deep thoughts
casually
i should have written
that poem
not this one
i could write every poem
listening to joni mitchell songs
'a case of you' playing
like a winter long ago
up there in the east of lansing
trying not to fall in love
and trying to be brilliant
failing at both
kicking back...
thinking and writing
sipping a cup of mesmer
icing on the cake of this day
wondering what canada
i might have lived in musing
‘bout trying to live at living
you make everything better
and angstful at the same time
you make poems just ooze
out of my natural self
what can i say but...
thanks
Rock Sculpture at Compo Beach
I was in Japan
I saw the Zen Rock Garden
Yours was better
5/22/2005
In Honor of the Armenian Poetry Project
& it's Founder Lola Koundakjian
Armenians always hear the voices
Echoing from the past
The long gone past, the recent past
The voices of what once were
And live still in the hearts of readers
Of both west 'irs' or east 'oums'
Uz'old words only heard in church
Or even our new native tongues
We hear the echoes of the past
Reflected in the mirror you hold
Speaking the past into bits and bytes
Echoing across the internet globe
Podcast into the Armenian ears
Shushan in Tehran
In Boston, Melbourne, Paris
Garnig in Gumri
In Vienna, Sao Paolo too
We see the white cap of our mountain
Drink from the untainted springs
Laugh in villages that are... no more
It is not possible
To write the poem of you,
Since the you of you
Permeates the me of me
Creating the
Coital spider of us
It is not possible
To write the poem of you,
I am too consumed
Scribbling with
My penal pen filled
With invisible ink
In the velvety vaginal
Book of you
It is not possible
To write the poem of you,
Since I get lost in the
Thought, dream, psychosis
In the reverie, image, reflection
Of loving you
It is not possible
To write the poem of you,
For no poet can capture
That which has no bounds
No definition, no limits
In the core of the brain
Base of the spine
Ventricular aortic joy
Of loving you
It is not possible
To write the poem of you,
As the words
Might spontaneously
Combust these pages
It is not possible
To write the poem of you,
Because brain functions
Cease at these
Emotional depths
It is not possible
To write the poem of you,
As it would be a waste of time
Since no one else would
Ever, no how, know way
In Heaven or hell or
Other places, possibly
Conceive of this level of passion,
From the likes of us
It is not possible
To write the poem of you,
Because good poems
Demand the loss,
Absence, erosion,
Deterioration and general
Decay of love
Copyright Mark Gavoor
August 14, 2001
Miami
to the poet's home
across harvard yard
anticipation meeting
with the daughter of
my grandfather's friend,
a pilgrimage to see
to learn, absorb the
aura of her way
to the poet's home
a tea august afternoon
of melon and madeleines
(bought just for me)
discussing words
and ironies of
working in our
new native tongue
to the poet's home
that ordered clutter
of books and words
in stacks and shelves
a stark and rich
canonical equilibrium
of perfect entropy
balance and awe
to the poet's home...
Copyright Mark Gavoor, October 1986
APP and its producer, Lola Koundakjian, retain the right to accept or reject any poetry submission(s) based on the criteria provided by the project description.
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