Tuesday, July 24, 2012

Grief (Aurora), a poem


There are no words, one
expects to say, but get
your family together,
pray and break bread.
When the neighbor dies

the same, keep your heart
open to include his relatives
and country. To spend time
mourning we would have
no other activity. This is

the koan--no other ripe
conclusion from the public
and private grief; yesterday
shooting of people
in the cinema in Aurora,

not the brilliant Borealis,
lights dazzling eyes,
but pops and zings from
the murderer's guns, and
today’s news, grandfather dead,

and you on a bus going back
to the city, everybody jostling
aboard with stories, griefs
and joys, you say that life
is shit, I agree, until

we roll out of the mud,
get up and wash our bodies
and calm our minds, remember
how he woke up in the morning
to take his tea, the stories

he told us of the deep country,
what we carry together
from him and Aurora, lights
snuffed out, burning temporarily
in this poem, our memory.

                Indran Amirthanayagam, July 24, 2012

1 comment:

Abril Albarrán said...

Bella lluvia de metáforas
me salpica
no necesito un impermeable
quiero tatuarme de ella