macau poetics


macau poetics




at a portuguese restaurant in macau


at a portuguese restaurant in macau
papa osmubal


first dusting

remnants of Eden©papa osmubal

yonder©papa osmubal

first dusting
kit kelen

you see it when the mist steps back
sea and beyond, on the mountains
light dusting a world past glass

when snow does the peaks
you feel the sky’s touch
see the separation of powers

close to the snow the rain’s arrival
slanted pale against
leaves remaining

it’s on a day of not going out
steady precipitation day – nothing to mitten grip
the poem comes direct from the keys

the sun comes into it
now and then
nothing to depend on

rain sets the pace
but upstairs there’s another idea
you can see a light dusting

these words the screen collects
might not mean much
they’re just what’s happening

here today
they collect on the screen
as light dusting


postscript to the norway drafts

after the rain©papa osmubal

after the rain©papa osmubal

postscript to the norway drafts
(from the tiny cypriot village of mesana)
kit kelen


winter is a comin’ in
water sits
rock drips
thunder sky and blow

pack up ports
think tropic thoughts
head for
latitudes below


a bum’s demise*
slumber©papa osmubal

slumber©papa osmubal

a bum’s demise*
papa osmubal

He is dead: his liver turned
Hard and bone-dry like a stone.

He left in mysterious and unexpected
fashion, leaving us all asking

And wondering as though his demise
was a riddle that needed answering.

The night before we were all late
for the usual overnight binge.

After weeks in a public infirmary, he showed up
much earlier than us all, reading Verlaine, reading

Poetry in his favourite corner, silently filling
his lungs with Havana cigar smoke.

This man, one can say, did not know how
to live, but he sure was darn good at dying.

“Don’t give me girls tonight,” he blurted.
“I don’t want to be a father again!”

He poured his glass with a generous whiskey,
slammed a box of cigar on the table.

“Man lives once, and dies once,” he said,
guffawing like he was mocking us all.

As usual it was almost sunup when the gang
felt they had had more than enough.

He did not go the usual way, he went
towards where the sun was rising.

* This poem first appeared in Cha: An Asian Literary Journal in February 2010.