It is so much easier to write a poem and speak to faceless ghosts Than to take your father’s hand and speak of things like love
Looking out the window of the House of Bol I loose my gaze To serious reflections on the apparent garden’s peace
While the porcelain statue on the mantle Mocks my silence: a dancing figure with bent knees
In the large garden of the House of Bol My feelings, concepts, and thoughts got large
The champa tree spreading its tawny fingers towards the sky the branches entangled with telephone’s whispering wires
She’s blue, he’s brown, they meet, they sit and eat He leaves, she stays on, taking in his scent, after he’s gone
A pledge in her eyes, her face requests „I beg“ says she, „Don’t“ she cries But I do not feel, or hear, or see, for a soldier is deaf and blind and dumb
And even though he’s young, he’s chained by society Restrained, constrained, and not at liberty
„Peace in the time of war?“ the hunter pulls the trigger The dove falls to the ground
And like the hoarse Crows of Cantt, Senator Tariq Aziz speaks, Be it less for song, and more for submission, both have a chorus rehearsed
I let them go by, I let’em go through Sure it hurts. But what can I do?
For long I’ve thought to break the ice And give way to words never spoken before.
Halt! Who goes there? Show yourself so that I can see Nay, it cannot be.
My words crouching in a corner as I nudge the night towards entrapment The blank page beckons a consummation
Pages have been written, words have been spoken Nothing has been heard
Yet when time settles, and we, then ash upon the grass, Knows this at least: we blazed with love and longing THE HOUSE OF BOL
It is so much easier to write a poem and speak to faceless ghosts Than to take your father’s hand and speak of things like love
Looking out the window of the House of Bol I loose my gaze To serious reflections on the apparent garden’s peace
While the porcelain statue on the mantle Mocks my silence: a dancing figure with bent knees
In the large garden of the House of Bol My feelings, concepts, and thoughts got large
The champa tree spreading its tawny fingers towards the sky the branches entangled with telephone’s whispering wires
She’s blue, he’s brown, they meet, they sit and eat He leaves, she stays on, taking in his scent, after he’s gone
A pledge in her eyes, her face requests „I beg“ says she, „Don’t“ she cries But I do not feel, or hear, or see, for a soldier is deaf and blind and dumb
And even though he’s young, he’s chained by society Restrained, constrained, and not at liberty
„Peace in the time of war?“ the hunter pulls the trigger The dove falls to the ground
And like the hoarse Crows of Cantt, Senator Tariq Aziz speaks, Be it less for song, and more for submission, both have a chorus rehearsed
I let them go by, I let’em go through Sure it hurts. But what can I do?
For long I’ve thought to break the ice And give way to words never spoken before.
Halt! Who goes there? Show yourself so that I can see Nay, it cannot be.
My words crouching in a corner as I nudge the night towards entrapment The blank page beckons a consummation
Pages have been written, words have been spoken Nothing has been heard
Yet when time settles, and we, then ash upon the grass, Knows this at least: we blazed with love and longing
dear bol-group. i plan to be in karachi starting tomorrow, for a few days. would be great to meet all the bol-people in karachi! i want to see how you enjoy life in that crazy town!! norman
5 comments:
here it is:
THE HOUSE OF BOL
It is so much easier to write a poem and speak to faceless ghosts
Than to take your father’s hand and speak of things like love
Looking out the window of the House of Bol I loose my gaze
To serious reflections on the apparent garden’s peace
While the porcelain statue on the mantle
Mocks my silence: a dancing figure with bent knees
In the large garden of the House of Bol
My feelings, concepts, and thoughts got large
The champa tree spreading its tawny fingers towards the sky
the branches entangled with telephone’s whispering wires
She’s blue, he’s brown, they meet, they sit and eat
He leaves, she stays on, taking in his scent, after he’s gone
A pledge in her eyes, her face requests „I beg“ says she, „Don’t“ she cries
But I do not feel, or hear, or see, for a soldier is deaf and blind and dumb
And even though he’s young, he’s chained by society
Restrained, constrained, and not at liberty
„Peace in the time of war?“ the hunter pulls the trigger
The dove falls to the ground
And like the hoarse Crows of Cantt, Senator Tariq Aziz speaks,
Be it less for song, and more for submission, both have a chorus rehearsed
I let them go by, I let’em go through
Sure it hurts. But what can I do?
For long I’ve thought to break the ice
And give way to words never spoken before.
Halt! Who goes there? Show yourself so that I can see
Nay, it cannot be.
My words crouching in a corner as I nudge the night towards entrapment
The blank page beckons a consummation
Pages have been written, words have been spoken
Nothing has been heard
Yet when time settles, and we, then ash upon the grass,
Knows this at least: we blazed with love and longing
THE HOUSE OF BOL
It is so much easier to write a poem and speak to faceless ghosts
Than to take your father’s hand and speak of things like love
Looking out the window of the House of Bol I loose my gaze
To serious reflections on the apparent garden’s peace
While the porcelain statue on the mantle
Mocks my silence: a dancing figure with bent knees
In the large garden of the House of Bol
My feelings, concepts, and thoughts got large
The champa tree spreading its tawny fingers towards the sky
the branches entangled with telephone’s whispering wires
She’s blue, he’s brown, they meet, they sit and eat
He leaves, she stays on, taking in his scent, after he’s gone
A pledge in her eyes, her face requests „I beg“ says she, „Don’t“ she cries
But I do not feel, or hear, or see, for a soldier is deaf and blind and dumb
And even though he’s young, he’s chained by society
Restrained, constrained, and not at liberty
„Peace in the time of war?“ the hunter pulls the trigger
The dove falls to the ground
And like the hoarse Crows of Cantt, Senator Tariq Aziz speaks,
Be it less for song, and more for submission, both have a chorus rehearsed
I let them go by, I let’em go through
Sure it hurts. But what can I do?
For long I’ve thought to break the ice
And give way to words never spoken before.
Halt! Who goes there? Show yourself so that I can see
Nay, it cannot be.
My words crouching in a corner as I nudge the night towards entrapment
The blank page beckons a consummation
Pages have been written, words have been spoken
Nothing has been heard
Yet when time settles, and we, then ash upon the grass,
Knows this at least: we blazed with love and longing
Thank you!:) Did the people in Lahore get to party later on? :)
dear bol-group. i plan to be in karachi starting tomorrow, for a few days. would be great to meet all the bol-people in karachi! i want to see how you enjoy life in that crazy town!!
norman
Khi people should figure out when and where we want to meet - please do let me know.
Tomorrow, anytime NO feels okay with, at the Goethe and then we can go somewhere together from there.
Goethe-Institut Karachi
2, Brunton Road, Civil Lines
Karachi - 74200, Pakistan
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