Omer Tarin

 Sitting on the ledge little bird fluffs  its feathers;  I will stay in bed.   Bare trees in the night,  ghostly-white against the snow-- a fox scurries by... Owl staring at me, perched up in the wooden beams;  we are both awake.  Dry leaves in the street scattered by the bitter wind; I watch them sadly. 

Up on the mountain top, looking down,  the whole valley is suffused  by shining lights;  Like the stars, but rotating and expanding, beams that reach out then split, then merge again in golden sheaves, plenitudes;  On ladders of celestial light the children ascend, climbing, climbing,  out of sight. . .   ---------  ---------------  ------------------ --------------- (c) Omer Tarin, October 2023   

 what ails you my friend, my dear heart? your thoughts are dark, cloudy, no longer fair;   something, some burden there is, that that is tearing you apart?  It feels as if your true life is only lived  in intervals,  small moments of bliss  (when all things seem clear),  when there is no longer any fear;  For the rest, there is only the  hushed silence of night,  a waste land stricken by blight;  Here we are awaiting the rain, once again.   --------  --------------- ---------------- ------------- ------------------ from 'acanthus' magazine, 2015  (c) Omer Tarin 

  This Being entails a new form, That diverges from some ancient norm;   It has existed since time began, Ever since the universe ran Like a poor clockwork With a semi-precise staccato, Beating out a tempo, tap-tap, Listlessly bound to the repetitive modes, Long lines of pilgrims, trudging on the roads;   On a rock basking in the sun, a little lizard observes the trailing dust, it dwells upon the mutability of life, longings, vanity and lust;   I, too, observe the scene, Passing by on this screen Of Presence;   No longer captive I can be lizard and man, Together, in the selfsame span.  -----  ----------  ------------- ---------------- ------------  - October 2022, unpublished poem (c) Omer Tarin 2022 

 ''I love my Maker for making me because had He not done so I would not have been''  -This, from a broken vessel beneath the window sill, Kicked around by countless feet,  until she picked it up,  the old one who lived alone,  damned as witch, whore or worse;  But the priest had thrown it out, when it had sprung  a leak and replaced it, with copper vessels  of sturdier make; Whey, then, had she taken it in,  that which had been thrown out?  Some voice from amongst the assembled  in hushed whispers said,  ''Perhaps she loved it, as something no longer useful but shaped by a Master Hand'' ...   -----------  --------------------- ------------------- -------------- ---------   from the collection The Anvil of Dreams, 1995 

 Have you perceived fair maid,  the dulcet hues of summer?  When sweetness is ripe in the sun and the enchanted trees sway supple and suppliant,  bending, bending  to the breeze?  Have you felt,  fair maid,  the wildest desire  to dance , freely and without restraint on the purple heather,  dancing, dancing by yourself?  Have you known,  fair maid,  the moods  of sensual ease,  recumbent in the shade of elm,  drowsy with the pleasure of its rustling leaves, swaying, swaying into sleep?  Have you dreamt, fair maid,  a summer's dream,  and found it at the rainbow's end,  suddenly alive  laughing, laughing with brazen joy?  ''No'', said the maiden, with scornful ease-- ''I have no time for play;  Take your pipes, your songs,  and go away.''   ----------- ------------------- ----------------------- ----------------  from Burnt Offerings, 1996 

 I have brought  my beggar-bowl to the threshold of your misery;  I have shattered  my heart against the stone of your vanity;  I have nailed  my happiness upon the coffin of your cruelty;  When I let myself love you, I accepted the inevitable,  and it's not what is happening that hurts but what should have happened, inevitably.  -------- --------------- ----------------- --------------- -----------  from Burnt Offerings 1996 

 Hiroshima child- your quiet eyes speak volumes of grief in silhouette;  Hiroshima child- you sit burning  by the river of fire infinitely patient;  Hiroshima child- they have cast you  in eternal stone for remembrance;  Hiroshima child- they still persist in straddling the world with indifferent ease. ..  ---------  --------------- ---------------- ------------------  from Burnt Offerings, 1996. Originally written for the Hiroshima Day Conference , London, UK 1995 

Come with me, my princess of the ivory tower,  Let us reach out to the stars; Come share with me my memories of Eternity,  the song the West Wind sings,  why summers end and winters come, now and forever let us be one;  From shore to ocean shore,  in rain-washed streets  and gardens under the glistening sky, amidst fragrant, flowery fantasies,  let us but feel the pulse of our future.  Look! There pulsates a new-born star, an infant love,  leading to our tryst  in mazes of light as millennia pass  in the beating of a heart the blinking of an eye the shedding of a tear so clear (crystal clear)  - and we,  Nature's children,  shall be forever enshrined  in our star that shines for us at night.   --------  ------------------ ------------------ --------------  from Canto 8 of 'The Harvest Season of Love Songs' 1997 

 The half-taught chorus of cicadas sings, Half the night is flown on pipistrelles wings, flitting their jagged selves,  black-clothed,  miniature wolverines with bats ears and bad teeth,  they look rather ruthless, almost as bad as cold little lizards crawling on colder walls of barnyard stone, lichen-covered,  and frosted with fuzzy moss,  Sunken glories tarnished with coppery colours,  the colours of night;  These lonely nights, My Lord !  Lonely, yet not alone.  I wonder where the sun shines now?  This moment is cloaked in gloom, the darker shades that loom, large,  larger than life,  nightmares of soiled impressions,  the moon's not out, not tonight,  the clouds hang low, as do convicts, with weird fingers twitching  a weird tattoo-- Regarding this,  their constricting hold, they translate into gestures, the sign language of the dead the lurid snapshots of a certain state of mind;  Apt reminder...

  Was this the town I called ‘Home’ For so many years, after My father’s death?   His home was here. The house still stands And the maggots that infest it. Writhing, slithery creatures, Black to the sight, Drooling over the rocks, Like prunes gone bad.   The rest is all changed. The town itself, I mean— The distant valleys strewn with pines, The old poplars along the roads, The mown grass fragrant in the breeze, Slow-moving clouds etched against the hills --All gone.   It is sad this slum, With its shops, Bus stops, Garages And more shops,   Fat women and scummy men   That’s all that’s to it, and memories of another Abbottabad.   -----------  -------------------- ---------------------------  from Riverbeds Flowing, 1999 

  An old man With an exasperating song— No two ways about it.  Syllables and branches Ran into the woods.  In maimed silence, Sour, pickled smile  -------- -------------------- -----------------------------  ----------------  from Riverbeds Flowing 1999 

  I saw her catch love in a mirror, the almond of her eyes blossoming into truth;   I saw him freeze in that moment, pitching the tent of his wandering upon her doorstep;    When the kohl of night  stained the ivory of their cheeks I stole quietly by, holding my breath within the hollow of my hands;   Not even the soul dare suspire on the brink of love's embrace.   ---------------------------------------------------------------------   from Riverbeds Flowing 1999 

  Then, to be awake in the sound and harmony Is to be deluged by the flowing murmurs Of divinity;   A host of godlings enduring this captivity Ripen into a molten core And burst out of silence Clamouring for attention;   That which we call “brain cells” Achieve fusion with the blood And trysting within the heart Become as mindful as the tender Green mosses;   Birds and butterflies, Slanting in the sunshine Come alive And every wing, feather, leaf and bough Stands out in vivid relief Talking from world to world, with the boundless potential Of spirit passing into spirit;   I shudder and they laugh, “ Hic vigilans somniat ”—“He dreams awake”.         ---------  -----------------  -------------------  --------------  from the collection Riverbeds Flowing , 1999 

  The frenzied clash and din Of horsemen Sounds about my ears, As in the harshness of the morning I see The rocks glistening with razor-sharp dewdrops;   It was a remote valley, this valley, Quiet and gentle yet also a fierce land Feuding with itself And here, it was a disgrace To be born anything but a boy;   So, she surprised me, For other girls , more demure, Fought only with barbed tongues- She, a tomboyish figure, would rather Punch your head in, Herding her father’s sheep with the boys of the clan;   I asked he is she was actually an Amazon, born I suppose, centuries later Than her wont? She said No, defiantly, But said, when I was born, My mother wept Tears of shame and cried out ‘’You are cruel God, Why send me a girl? Take her back! She lies heavy , like a stone upon my heart!’’   That Is the curse I was born beneath- And therefore I labour To wash my stain And endeavor to be As much ma...

  Dawn lingered over the river,                     Unearthly hues dancing across The conical heights of snowbound ranges Yawning in pantomime, Shivering in anticipation Of the sun’s warm promise;   When the icicles melt Life returns To pools of frozen crystal, Once again, waters meandering down To the great, roaring torrent;   Once again, The soul’s immemorial longings cascade;               --------   ---------------- ------------------ ------------------ ------------------ From Canto 3, The Harvest Season of Love Songs, 1997    

  In the dead of winter I wept Praying and prostrating myself Upon the cloth of your infinite compassion;   Were I a musician, I would express your elusiveness In symphony, Weaving songs on violins;   Were I a poet, I would declaim your mystery In rhapsody, Walking soundlessly on words;   I am neither tonight   Never having learned, I am not adept At recalling An event that transcends All attempts, Transcends language and form, Transcends communication Into the fatal realization Of my own meaningless;   Half-veiled,my friend, I solicit the madness Which is past cure; Burnt am I, out of all delusion, Groveling in a delightful insanity;   At times, I may come Close to loving you.               ---------    -----------------------------    --------------- -------------- From Canto 8, The Harvest Season of Love Songs, 1...

  Beggars sat huddled In harried rows;   Their bowls were made From burnished gourds;   The Market was full Of people And every provision, Fruits were in abundance, Fowls quite plentiful, The grain-store was good;   Yet, I heard the howling of dogs, Wretched skeletons Groveling in the gutters, Beside themselves with misery, Shouting their starvation to the world, Unfulfilled creatures, Unhappy with their lot, Fast-fading into oblivion, Their gullets choked with the gall Of a violent hatred; Meanwhile, t he dance had begun When I bestirred myself To participate; Their voices rose in lavender tints Evaporating in the mists, Roses fell in profusion And the cobbled by-ways Clattered under my feet, Clouds of roses Clusters of lavender, The fragrant echoes of a music, heard And easily remembered, Staining the garment of undress, with The hues of a glory long-forgotten, Alive somewhere Within the ca...

  The dead land , cracked and parched for the rains of mercy lies spreadeagled along the way; the bitter thorns of the Kikar tree threaten menacingly , and the wells are all poisoned with hypocrisy         -------     -----------    ------------   ----   From The Harvest Season of Love Songs 1997 , cc  

 The wine of life sparkled in her eyes  in zest and joy  and vintage vitality ;  Beneath a blooming bough she bent for  the sweet sugar plums that were proffered;  And I saw, too, reflected there in those eyes the energy she drew from Nature and love and all that was new; Sweet dreams, awash in moonlight,  Pathways of stars that twinkled in the night, White doves that cooed songs of springs yet to come-- white-frosted winters, sultry summers, the sheer sensuous exuberation,  light flotation on fairy wings, of the mad musicality of the mind under the solstice sun, by gushing rills and fantasies of garland flowers;  Thus Nature spoke to her, in all its eloquence-- the waltzing wind led her round and round  the grassy knoll and old, hoar trees swayed in time,  and hummed a tune or two;  The momentary magic  I thus beheld  enthralled me and it seemed, for a second,  as if all the joy, all the vitality ever,  had...