Poem at 30 Years of Age
12 July 2011
My benefactor Pablo, astral brother,
tells me that “today is that day, the day
that carried a desperate light that since
has died.” But I do not believe him.
My head is woozy with recollections
of a steady and unceasing light,
the light of genuflections & white liquors.
(The whiteness of a coreana’s leg!
& the whiteness of my beloved’s thigh
in moonlight, as we sip makgeolli.)
Yes, a white light that seeps into everything,
which is not desperate but conciliatory,
and which fills the cup I drink with images
of wayfaring and companionless conversations
carried in a silence full of listening
to the oblivious converse of drinkers.
One is not more than the three decades
that group up in the empty belly,
One is not more than the drink one drinks alone.
(30 years and I am less than 1.
I am the forgetfulness of the cup,
the forgetfulness of broken maths
and spilt milk.)
What seeps in me is the white light
of occasions, the solitude
that collects in the murky gaze
of a window’s reflection. I drink
not to myself but to the Self that had been
a number of persons, a pool of them
cupped in gold, and bathing. “I is another.”
I and Self drink to all 30 of these selfless selves!