(i)
The last rays of the sun
drop into my room,
baking walls
to a gold glow, as the silver
beams of the day took me
through overcrowded streets
woven with folks bubbling
with wing-flapping birds flying
out of their gestures.
Within my baked walls glazed
with the evening's
yellowish afterglow,
I begin to scale up a steep
mountain of sleep
after a belching dinner
has wrapped me up
with digging fingers
and creeping brushing palms
that fail to shut up
my eyes with a bolted click,
and I flip
my eyes open again
at every sound and light
scratching wind,
as stones from my inner bowl
drop on me.
(ii)
With the twist of a whisper
that loses its voice
to the storm
and thunder that struck me
throughout the day,
as invective jumped out
of shoppers' mouths,
bells of trumpets throwing out
bangs and booms
few ears want to swallow
without writhing out
of a lurking viper's path.
It was a thorny day.
It was day of trees rising before
me for a pick-a-back climb.
When I limped out
of breath - and out of the steam
that carried me
like a leaf, as I landed back
at my door steps.
(iii)
Now it's time to sleep,
but the mountain of a climb
stretching its bumpy back at me
all early night,
raises me to a high ridge,
against which I stumble
and fall flat on my pillow, a plain
that rides me through
the soft whistles and chanting
sobs of a river
that drives me into the gorge
of rumbling snores.
River, abandon me not.
Hold me tight in your gentle flow.
But a chokehold from a stretch
of snores hurls me
into showers of moon gripping me
with the creamy hands
tosses me onto my feet, as I walk
towards my moonlit desk
in the living room, as I fold myself up
in the flowery linen
of a creeping poem sending me
crashing in a free fall
on a sheet of paper as blank as moon.
Absolutely beautiful....in other words tired from shopping you went home to sleep then you couldnt so you got up to write this poem. Wonderful way of poetically putting it. I am learning fast Perusing through the verbal nuances of Bongjoh Literally genius and weaving through the poetic misadventure I terminally hark upon a vividly opulent Damascus moment That the beautifully woven verbally vibrate literally mssterpiece Is about insomnia and writing a poem.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Images of a day, known by the liver...the visceral knower... told in words only one person could say... as fellow-travelers gesture from banks of aloneness... and passing hours traverse the spine of landforms... then easing Lethe-ward, a spell that propels through velvet hours... until the breath cycle wobbles out of synch... blessedly in moonlight a blank sheet awaits... the riverbed extends into a new day.