La mer d'Aral est mort!

One night

At poetry club

I could think of nothing

But to write

About how I had

Nothing to write.

And then I thought,

"The Aral Sea,

Victim of lack of socialist foresight,

Is dead,

Drought and dessication

Taking its place.

Once there were islands,

Once there were cities on the sea

And railways elevated

Above the waves.

Once there were fish and fishermen

And schools and children.

Now, sands and salt

Sift sullenly

In the winds of artificial desert."

Thus were my thoughts

About the death of seas.

Do you ever feel

That your headwaters

As well have been diverted

To grow cotton in Uzbekistan?

And that the sea of your life

Is shrinking and drying,

The fishes dying,

Villagers fleeing,

Drought o'ertaking,

Workmen leaving,

Hot winds raking

The salts and sands

That are all that's left

Of an ocean of ended dreams?

I hope not.
I hope you have

No idea

What that's supposed to mean.

Back To The Pen!

It's good to reach out
In silent language,
In script - the linearization of thought.
But so self-conscious am I
In this reaching?
Yes.

Yet it need not ever be,
For, ofttimes when my passion
And my power to express it
Are equally matched
I do not write,
Nor think,
Nor reach,
But rather live my expression,
Breathe it.

Why is it not always the case
That will and way
Are blissfully bonded together?
Whence schism, and deliberateness,
And thought that knows itself?
Are these the artifacts of
Souls out of their element
Like hippos on dry land?

One day
When this unity occurs
We shall find
Every motive, pure;
Every deed, praiseworthy;
Every writing, worth remembering;
And every uttered word become
In the very speaking
A thoughtful poem of its own.