Hopeless romantic, grounded realist, eternal optimist, brooding pessimist. All these are me. I am all of them. When I referenced my diaries for poems written decades (1985-99) ago, I was surprised to find that most related to either Love or Death. I was even more surprised to discover that, with a quick change here and there, many of them could be interchanged to reflect either. It was in this way that I discovered in myself the obsession that Sigmund Freud labelled as Eros and Thanatos, a theme that has fascinated thinkers, poets and writers for centuries. Here you will find Eros and Thanatos and a bit of Philos in between.
Here below the oppressive heat On ground parched and cracked In dark and pregnant sheet A thousand clouds above gathered Streaks of lightning signal the vent As thunder roars in rapture With joyous cries they mingle The first drops downwards
Goodbye, land and farewell, woman Never was the pleasure mine Of drunken slumber on your lap Nor the warmth of hand on hand Never the sizzle of lip on lip Or the balm of quietly being Never did I explore
The rain patters in monsoon night Its monotone no lullaby It’s not the moist air that chokes It’s not the bug that lurks In languor I long for you Darkness states your absence And the rain mourns it I seek
Ignorant of limit, free of bond Virtuous foolishness, night-less dream All pervading, all purifying You are the pounding of the heart And the gushing of the blood You are the pain of separation And the exhilaration of tryst The sighs,
All defenses crumbled, all fears banished All reasons negated, all arguments destroyed Looking into your big passionate eyes Not random chance, but providence Crossing our ways time and again Leading me to your big passionate eyes Yield just once to
Much time has passed, now and then When incited by your furtive glance I asked myself for the first time Was this that one stroke of chance? Much time has passed, now and then When I dared to hold your
What implorations do they trace? These crooked legs in convulsion These crawly things in deathly grace What feeling evoke, what compulsion? The crushed mass on concrete floor In pasty death mocks my wisdom Should I act, or do I ignore