Three Poems by Amit Parmesseur

My Sunset

An explorer, mad in love, I feel
candles are burning faster than before.

Listening to the light saying how
the most unworthy journey starts
with toes that don’t trust themselves,
I see, now and then,
the raindrops oozing a terrifying
story, whispering something
on mortality.

Remembering that not every wanderer
has a destination I now
sit by the roadside!

Some curse has stolen the gloom
from the dead hearth and
placed it in my heart.
As if some invisible hand
has thrown dust on the piano and
I have lost the refrain.

I’m realizing that every butterfly
cannot tango in new pastures.

I’m realizing that every rainbow
cannot smile without sun and rain.

I’m realizing why every shadow
cannot turn into a pure, eternal dream.

I won’t forget to watch the moonlight
flirt with the clouds tonight!
Maybe I’ll, for once,
understand how sad I can be.


About My Future

The streets will become so wide.
My wife and I will drive
a yellow tractor near the mountain.

The dogs will change hues.
And the flowering bushes will
become shy or hide in extinction.
Rare birds will bring
a few grains of nostalgia to me.
The stream will be alone,
flowing anonymously along
missing redolences of bananas.
My wife and I will bathe
like children looking for Jesus.

People’s ears will forget how
to reach the rustling leaves and
their sophisticated feet will fail to
feel the magic of village soil.
The houses will be like kernels
on a maize cob, with
walls speaking about deep
separation and universal divorce,
and the letter-box will lack
decades of human touch.
My wife and I will write to
each other in the same room.

I fear the moon will flirt with
the mountain in an unpoetic way,
but I know, my wife will always
kiss my crazy poems about her.

The stars with nocturnal tricks,
like drunk, spoilt teens serenading,
will we still recognize them?
My wife, I and green tea!


The Queen of the Desert

Flung wildly and flung unjustly,
like a cheap candle,
I’ve meandered in the cities of dust.

Stop overlooking my misery,
with one eye behind your cascading hair.
Stop weaving tales of nothingness;
my patience has perished now.
Every soul is equal in a sunless desert;
do not dare to be a queen.

You just can’t sit there while
I soothe the blisters on my parched body.
You just can’t sit there while
demons spit straight into my face.
Why don’t you caress my lips
with your white bosom instead.

We are single again; let’s not mingle.
You can’t blow a wind
into my face and fly so far west!

Let my love stick on your warm curves
tonight. Let the cacti and
loneliness envy our sandy union.

I’m a black lily, a ripe wine.
I’m a trodden chamomile.
My mouth pining for your company

smells strongly of apple.

I can’t want to wither near
the white bosom of another maiden
by a romantic evening, waiting
for the sun to rise.


Profile: Amit Parmesseur

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