MA in Publishing
MA in Publishing
I’ll say that a poet is a rose.
I’ll hear in response –
the world has never seen such a cliché.
But the blossoms will be gathered in spring,
to be pressed in cauldrons
аnd turned into elite perfumes.
And the finest of the finest poems,
filtered by time,
will preserve the glow of eternal heights for the future.
So bloom, rose of Taif,
look with thirty petals from the mountain through the sunbeams!
I’ll say that a poet – is a spiny jujube growing in Durban.
They’ll ask – what are you talking about?
It has two thorns on every shoot;
one that bends backward, as if hooking the past,
and one that is straight, saying: march forward, do not hesitate.
So, green jujube,
shield us from the ruthless storm
and fierce lightning!
I’ll whisper: a poet – is an Eyakam tree
from the sacred grove near Kozhikode.
A lone tree with seeds
flying upward on delicate little wings,
into the monastery of cherished wishes.
Pilgrims share the same desires.
So, bloom in the sacred grove,
prayer of poetry,
never fade away!
Does life become smaller?
Does foliage grow sparser?
Do we lack the words to stop fierce death?
Yet Lorca didn’t write everything about the ripe pomegranates of Granada,
yet the sun glimmers with snow over the oak groves of Slemani,
and waves still crash against the shores of Nanjing.
The world is losing its mind faster and faster, and here I am talking about bushes and trees.
If these treetops, inflorescences and branches suddenly vanish,
If these bindings, alphabets and rhymes suddenly perish,
where will we get the oxygen to breathe freely?
Where?
Recognize my city
by the leaf print
on a blank page
in a random reel…