Max Strong, Some Notes Poem by RIC BASTASA

maxie, the poems are there on a silver platter
you do not even have to read them
you are not called upon to understand each word

(thought each is carefully chosen
to suit a mood, a value, an image
to appear logical and relevant
reverent and working hard to appease
some emotions like a cool fan
to go with hot summer or a hot tea
for the rainy day under the thatched
roofing of the mountain hut)

there are no hours reserved in the making
of a poem, but i accept there is a broken dam
a leaking reservoir of feelings wanting to
be free and claim even a whole village,
bizarre thoughts of a catastrophe
but it need not be that, could simply be
a beehive where each day each worker
goes to the flowers and get the nectar
for their queenbee, for the colony
sweet labot sweet reservoir of words)

by then, on an impulse a poem is made
a quick flash of light, like thunder and lightning
i close some windows i open some
i slam the door i close gently some
it is simply unpredictable like some


(oh yes, they have said it before)

like a candle that melts itself and
then like tears they always take shape
on the side of the body-this poetry
always going for something unplanned
unscheming to the least, it just flows
like thoughts after a nap, like the imaginations
of a child dreaming his eyes anchoring on
that mountain with fog and mists.....

some clouds taking shape on the horizon
brooms, witches, princess, rabbits,
UFO'S or some flower-clouds
the face of God, the face of the one you love

don't sweat it out, they mean nothing
but by then, when you read them like
you are not thinking, the thoughts come
like angels like some prophets with
drops of fire landing on their foreheads

serendipity, aha! aha! there it is
your face in the mirror, like a ghost that you see
passing by and then suddenly gone
you cannot even believe that it is there

was it there? convince yourself, there was not any
except your mind, there was a lapse of memory somewhere
a leak of disbelief, but you swear there was really
someone, there was this white thing this face
a ghost, you swear there was something in that poem

and you read again, but you are tired, so much pressure
has been put to understand, sleep now, do not waste your time

it is precious, and this one does not deserve a minute
of your comprehension, a second of misappreciation...

what was there? nothing, i assure you, there is nothing
but just a ghost wanting to pretend that it is real