dashing and smashing

she like a bull in the china shop

dashed and broke every fragile glassware,
the familial values
together we accumulated and guarded
through our own trial and error
and with much pain to cherish, to build
that neatly arranged little nest, a home

she smashed all in a moment of fleeing

with no consideration except for her larger bed
that could accommodate a variety
calling it freedom and opportunity

smashing that beautiful home, the family

getting rid of the sacred responsibility
of the motherhood, that constantly demanded
a modeling, a witnessing
also to the emerging mothers

thus she dashed, smashed

her mother’s motherhood with her own
and that of her daughter’s

henry victor     19.07.2010

‘misery never ends’

gambled too much with you
offering worship devotedly
doing your chores faithfully
suffering endlessly i struggle

whispering daily my despondency

i am now exhausted, and wasted!
living with you a life of tranquility
i learn: i cannot flee from misery
 
henry victor     07.07.2002

Note: Title taken  from Vincent Van Gogh's
note to his brother Theo Van Gogh
and the content of the word, 'misery'
should be read with Buddha's Dukkha'
peppered and salted with
'Annata' and 'Anicca'.

abyss

my wings faltered and into an abyss

i fell from where i saw a deeper hole
within the cave of my heart, and more
i lingered there, i saw more craters

bigger, creating a deep void within

and the more i pondered that hollow
within the more frightening it became
and the gulf outside too stretched afar

i thought then with what shall i fill

that chasm deep within my soul!
from that drift, an alienation i am
how do i free myself, my being?

henry victor     01.07.2002

 

destabilizing

in vain i sought your assistance for years

to empty from my spirit, the energy

mistakenly placed in human habitat

a nerve meant for the cat family

her relatives

and the eerie woods

that vigor

evolving from eating flesh

and ascertaining right by might

blocking heart and soul

instead opening the muscle

in gentle breeze, flower

and wild weeds

a power contending not

with fellow creatures

and waging not

war with the neighbor

thus destabilizing

the law of the jungle in human hearts

henry victor     16.07.2002

dreaming dreams

after holding you tight in my hand
for a flash in my eternity, now i let
you go that you may dream dreams
of your own; in any case i own you

not, nor did i own the sperm, the worm

that yoked the egg: your beginning
but you made me your bonded slave
whose release now depends in me

letting your hand go, to let you wander

and let you, also, err in your errands
that you may become, truly, your own
that i too may, again, dream my dreams

henry victor     11.07.2002

 

Photo copyright: With thanks to Crafter's Imagework, Edmonton

and fruits hidden

i hid my soul in your heart like a seed
deposited in the dust on a cool evening
just before the sun had set closing
another date with his mate, the mother

earth, eager to see and benefit

from a fragrant flower and fleshy
fruits; though my soul barely soared
and like a seed scarcely saw light

water, or those nutrients, yet the stone

germinated eventually to be trampled
under foot growing as an unwanted plant
to be uprooted and replanted many times

dropping leaves, drooping almost to die

but continuing to exist with many bruises
inflicted carelessly, yet growing into a tree
surviving with scars and fruits hidden

henry victor     21.06.2002

 

the Nazarene

disquieting was his uncompromising

message of nonconformity

to the monotonous masses
crafty priests, and aristocratic bastards

he confirmed unhesitatingly the same

with his short and swift life ending
on a cross, a climax hastened by men
and women, with limited wisdom

sensibilities, denying space for innovative

spirit and unexpected news combined
with unconventional means of communication
dying but retaining, unashamedly, memories

of his staunch and stable support

for the under-dogs alienated, utterly
by the so called nobility laundering
the power filled creed, cult, and culture

henry victor     05.07.2002

a matter of fact

in this soil of special spells

the attire alters with cold, not so cold
warm, and really warm, merging
into a unisex code, for similar need

in that land of lavish castes and class

the dress differs, defiantly with levels
of learning, weight of wallet, and social status
with one gender expelling the other

henry victor     13.06.2002

 

take off … to feel the poetry

peep not into my private cell with greedy

lust to establish control over my dungeon
a collection of poems, and prowl
not like a wolf, a dangerous dog, and crawl
not to pounce on me as the wildest cat
when entering this hallowed precincts

take off, then, your footwear and the headgear

and make sure to come, and with me suffer;
empty your mind and come into my heart
that sacred struggle to silently feel

henry victor     20.06.2002

 

 

 

reconstructing

with these bleak and busted building blocks

from derelict dreams of my exhausted mind
my trampled soul has dared to dream despite
the bleeding wound in my battered body

this discarded child from that ruined family

earlier neglected student of the deserted village
intends not to bend bruised knees to insolent might
even if he were to be pushed into a ghost town

with that broken pot and empty can the beaten spirit

will continue on that abandoned boat to reconstruct
the wretched wrecked life and rebuild the burnt house
watering also the sun scorched plants in the parched land

henry victor     17.06.2002

 

magnanimity

i stand in front of your wide face

facing, day after day, your magnanimity
to permit tiny boats to fearlessly float
beside massive ocean liners

but i still not have learnt that art

of nobility, while you in spite
of your power and your volume
you still respect your neighbor’s line

and you never intrude into that

boundary except when angry
while i with all my smallness
always try to push my reigning

even into territories belonging not

to me expecting others to leave
room for me, with that absolute
freedom to move and reign
 
henry victor     10.06.2002

gardening

my mind flees to those days of my gardening

making flowers of pink, red, yellow, and other
taking my stand with plants in rain and sunshine
as i’m washed in the lashing showers, becoming

part of the ocean, the source of all life

not petrified by thunder and lightening
that prompts the faint hearted to escape
to hide timidly under roof avoiding strife!

my spirit yearns for those days of flower making

making flowers of pink, red, yellow, and other
walking upright as soft drizzle shower on my head
while my soul dances singing, all is green grass!

henry victor      17.06.2002

living contradictions

she lives immersed in her own backwaters, smaller dreams

unspoken thoughts she is unaware of  like improper breathing
that is likely to kill her soul before freeing it to fly high in sky
to stand tall in that human mall of buying, selling and loving

occasionally like a playful dolphin in larger waters, an ocean

wide and deep, she props her nose as if fresh air breathing
is her top priority, for a moment making even ocean liners
to stop, to pause, to record in a horizon danger is brooding

this makes contradictory impressions in my own mind

constantly changing colours, texture and tones, freeing
fast, the previous image like a cooler evening firmament
completely dependent on that fire ball, the sun sliding

henry victor     15.09.2013

 

making of a destiny

you make me by moulding my frequent fall

my crashing from top of the tall coconut palm
my vandalizing those around that, now, come
back to me with the force of a trampling bull

charging on my being with already broken bones

as if you are making solid bricks mixing dry terra cotta
my desires, my dreams, including my pick-pocketing
other’s flaws, mixing with flow of water, my misfortune

like that bath tub faucet breaking, making my wallet

leak while i searched the market for the rare cartridge
to avert the waste of water, much draining into drainage
but me only pocketing pain, a bigger speeding ticket

henry victor     30.09.2013

   

toad not croaking!

 

like that toad my little grandson brought
from the park you sit in my unkempt garden
with fewer flowers, fruits, and overgrown
tomato and lettuce plants now in neglect

here i neither see you nor hear your croaking

except, vaguely, as i parse your speech, breaking
of light and sound in my dreams i hardly
ever remember as the morning sun so deadly

towards my night i embrace, dearly, with affection;

for it keeps my eye lids shut and feet in resting position,
my invisible heart and mind complacent of the margin;
thus affirming your invisibility, a faith in great precision!

henry victor       01.09.2013

the three

he holds you tight under his arm-pit

dancing on waves like a wood on drift
with other drift-woods swimming not
to the shore, to you, the eternal rest spot

the other, with you on the same spot

too swims with speed, not aimlessly float
but deep under water with intent
to whirl the water above with its content

the third he steers the rudder of the boat

pretending to swim with others in the moat
his own dug-out, to colonise you and the rest
the submissive slaves, with no quest, nor zest

henry victor     31.08.2013

 

buying and selling

unlike those days in my motherland, today
in my adopted-land despite its abundance
rarely i find one to give, or to receive
but in plenty are those that sell, or for buying

what cannot be sold is dumped

for elimination with those incapable
to buy, and those who lobby giving
too, will be pushed to the margin

to be marginalized, to be maligned

and silenced like a sheep ready for shearing
in a world taking from, and taking ruthlessly,
acceptable, than sharing with the needy

henry victor     28.08.2013

building your rule

my mind just for a moment, like a bee

on the flower, grazes along your throne, the grace!
yet, i like you to exert, to dictate, with force
the journey, the direction and content of  my soul
 

with its luggage, my being to build your rule
uprooting my heart from amidst that rat race
of erecting larger ware houses, storage space
storing the harvest of abundance with tilted scale

that also renders your seat irrelevant in a world

where Jesus and his colleagues receive a lip deal,
and no more, in a scope where shopping for gold
is, for someone on the trail, a substantial meal

henry victor     14.08.2013

seeing geraniums, thinking beauty

hundred times every single day

i, with simple lenses, photograph
my geraniums in my garden
to store them in the album

that i take to my eternity;

these blooms are my women
whose faces i gaze upon untiringly!
in them i see Grace, a gift

to an undeserving soul

saving me from gloom and harm,
prompting me to pick up my brush
to paint, adding more geraniums

to that invisible Garden beyond

where there is neither toil
nor need for rest, nor men
or women to entertain a painter

henry victor     01.08.2013

my faith

how big should be my canvas

to paint a splendid painting
satisfying my soul, or the Source
the Soul that paints my soul

if it is small as my thumb nail

will it be pushed away
and dismissed as narrowly
moralistic, unduly silly

and what if it is wide, wide

as the world beyond my window!
will this be sacked as political
a revolt against the Heaven!

what if i make it my palm size

connecting dots and lines therein!
will such an art be brushed aside
as too mathematical, merely cerebral!

henry victor     30.07.2013

deserted cocoon

he was the crusty cocoon covering the caterpillar

boneless, yet filled with vibrant life, and belittling
the very source of her security, and the sacrifices
the casing made to transform frailty and un-beauty

later to lighter flight, much fluttering with splendour

of myriad colours as of acrylic paint and clear-coat
for weathering both the hot sun and the wet rain
before seizing the right moment to flirt with another

and never return to the cocoon, the first house

that remains deserted, forever a broken heart, blood
now dried, able to give no more life, mere useless
clothing, like the shed skin of a snake now escaped   

henry victor     25.06.2013

* This poem is dedicated to Fari Lotsali of Eagle Nation Buffet in Pitt Meadows, BC

 

dancing with angels

when in mind melancholy

has anchored like a ship immovable

let my heart hear your whispers

your songs

the un-winged angels coming in winds

both gentle and rough

to unhinge my soul for dancing

after smooth, or jolting shift of gears

altering reasons and changing my vision

lest i sink in mud

that sadness mixed with pity

flowing like water to keep ground soft

and my wings stuck

disabling the soaring of my spirit

toward clouds

sailing on the wings of your storm

on paths high

much higher than above my head

encasing the brain detached

from dancing angels 

henry victor      05.06.2013

un-camping

it rained last night and it poured

raining cats and dogs the whole night
and i slept not, not even a wink
for inside my tent i was drenched

the thunder storm with lightning

provided my camp with blinking light
after blowing out the candle, a blink
in my corner before it stood shining

now i un-camp to continue my expedition

hoping soon the sun would shine bright
to wash and dry soiled laundry, my link
to tomorrow’s trade and rest-filled vacation

henry victor     28.05.2013

 

jammed cento

retreating from the world, all i can do

where no man has seen the third hand
and i meet the Bishop on the road, and
i caught this morning morning’s minion

in an upper room at midnight

when i watch the living meet my last
Duchess painted on the wall!
oh, my love is like a red, red rose

for which the thirsty earth soaks up the rain

and flee from me that sometimes did me seek
with Chieftain Iffucan of Azcan in caftan!
Milton! you should be living at this hour!
 
henry victor     10.04.2013

ingredients

i prepared a simple supper

but with great love i cooked
that main meat of refined wheat
durum semolina, traded as rotini

an Italian pasta to go with beef, a grace

from a Canadian cow grazed in prairie grass,
spiced with herbs from the hunted tropics:
ginger, garlic, turmeric, and coriander

powdered, with red pepper powder

and red pepper crushed, black pepper
(also powdered), added to the onion
chopped, fennel, fenugreek, and cumin

(all seeds), and the magical mustard,

adding leaves chopped: basil, chives
and parsley, with garam masala, a Bharat
special, sprinkled with hardly a pinch of salt

before adding the slow-cooked African beans
and Mexican sauce: chopped and crushed tomato,
and boiled potato, after being sautéed
in the US canola oil to enhance the taste

of minerals and more already in my pan:

folate, iron, niacin, riboflavin, and thiamine
already mixed in carbohydrate, the main
with Chinese additives: citric, soy, and seasonings

unlisted; likewise the two sealed cans

that curtailed my sprinkling salt for supper
came with corn starch, sugar, more spices
and blackstrap molasses, and a poetic muse

henry victor     04.05.2013

from your son

mommy! you made your slim and sensual frame

into a shapeless bundle, bundling my being inside
you for nine long months, keeping me, a worm, warm,
free from hunger and thirst, marks of the world outside;

and today! you struggle to work so hard to remain a mom
of great affection, cuddling me, as you march to a profession
greater, and your time for me is likely to reduce, to dim
like a lamp gathering smoke soot on her facial expression,

like your mom before you, travelling that path of darkness

prior to teaching you skills to swim, to avoid sinking in a pool,
without that settling in a trailer park, to bike and hike, distances
incredible to inspire me, that i may avoid the way of a fool!

henry victor     12.05.2013

moulding the clay

in an unexpected moment you, the source

and content of my being, the providence
dumped into my hand a lump, a handful
of clay to mould, to squeeze into my soul,

with your intent to realign my finger

and my voice to your purpose littered
in a bird with wings free to fly away
breathing a breath of rebellion to rebel,
 
with my pain and pleasures now i clean
a baby’s bum, carry a child, run behind a teen
and beyond, my sculpting a living being
in which is hidden the trends of my doing

henry victor     29.04.2013

 

crab in the kitchen sink

i am a Dungeness crab with my claws

now strapped with rubber bands, my food
and my hiding hole taken away, leaving
me seated in someone else’s  kitchen sink

sinking with my manuscripts, pens, papers

and pencils to my death like a doomed rapist
murderer ready to walk, nay, sit on the electric
chair, soon to be flushed out as staunch stink

but even here i have not lost my control

to give, to give self as food, age old whine
my writing in heart, that poem, my protest
against being a puck in the skating rink

henry victor     09.04.2013

floods and sludge (again)

cooking food, cleaning pots, pans, plates

and other cutleries surged, overflowed
like a spring river in my April days
and nights with no pause even to evaluate

either their relevance, or the quality of my life

that now carried floods and sludge with speed
though i, like brother Lawrence, the sage
applied my heart and soul working to bleed

without counting the cost but rejoicing

in my washing feet cracked and dirty
a relevant, realistic imitation of Jesus
than that ritual on Maundy Thursdays

that made my ego bloat every spring;

but neither the current work with great love
satisfies my soul where springs a still
small voice that i hear not clearly to change

henry victor      03.04.2013