A narration of the seven year cycle
</p>
nga Genc Salihu</p>
for Charles Bukowski, with care. </p>
At six, I started climbing</p>
Trees; I had discovered dreams</p>
And was hiding pictures in</p>
Broken walls to see if theyd</p>
Last the winter, and test my</p>
Memory. I wanted a guitar,</p>
Not a tennis racket, so I was</p>
Frequently at the mirror,</p>
Screaming with joy and</p>
Patience. I could speak, so</p>
I learned to read and read</p>
Aloud old, dirty books with</p>
My back against the TV set</p>
To be the anchorman and</p>
The scientist. I had a friend</p>
Called Silence that fed me feta</p>
Cheese and crisps as I was</p>
Guarding those primeval,</p>
Priceless hours. I had a house</p>
Called Music where Id sit</p>
With her to wait for death</p>
To ooze from the speakers. At</p>
Twelve, I had a harmonica.</p>
At thirteen, I was singing to</p>
My dads friends, sometimes</p>
For recognition, then at times</p>
To please him. I was crying a lot,</p>
But that was because I was a</p>
Coward. I never cried again after,</p>
At fifteen, I got a glimpse of</p>
Fame and fellow mans greed</p>
And worshiping contempt. I</p>
Was a hyper-active, arrogant,</p>
Annoying prodigy with a lean</p>
Tongue that, at the first few sights</p>
Of insincerity, never ceased cursing</p>
And being a little brave, too. At</p>
Seventeen, I started to smoke and</p>
Play, so by twenty I had come out</p>
Of heroin with having written</p>
A lot of poems and songs.</p>
At twenty one, I met her, this</p>
Beautiful, tall, deep, dark and</p>
Complex young woman who</p>
Took me in and lived with me,</p>
Filling me with fear and longing</p>
And teaching me food, tact and</p>
Conversation. She left as I turned 25,</p>
With tact, of course, a long</p>
Dark coat and a few seamless,</p>
Shameless lies. I drank then and</p>
Lied about my passions, and</p>
Got myself an education. On the</p>
Course of those witless, murky</p>
Years, I remembered how to sing</p>
About what mattered in ways that</p>
Didnt matter much, so I came</p>
Back home to see what dad was</p>
Doing. He, as usual, was full of</p>
Strange hopes and intrusive dreams</p>
Hed mistaken for something elusive</p>
He called future, so I drank and lied</p>
About my passions and got myself</p>
A crowd to get busted with.</p>
Now, at twenty seven, Im still</p>
Admittedly drinking a few drops,</p>
I wont lie. Not even about my</p>
Passions, I cant. Im not seeing</p>
Anyone as much as Ive been known to</p>
And have fallen in love with an</p>
Old friend who likes my poetry.</p>
I dont talk much I still cant get</p>
My head around the flash of</p>
Yielding to the acceptance of</p>
A penetrating probability </p>
That proverbial seven year cycle.</p>
Nëse artikulli ju pëlqen ndajeni me miqtë tuaj në Facebook
</p>
Posted in Lart & Poshtë, Letërsi Tagged: genc salihu, poezi
Per me shume artikuj te ngjashem vizitoni: http://tiranacalling.wordpress.com/?p=3206
nga Genc Salihu</p>
for Charles Bukowski, with care. </p>
At six, I started climbing</p>
Trees; I had discovered dreams</p>
And was hiding pictures in</p>
Broken walls to see if theyd</p>
Last the winter, and test my</p>
Memory. I wanted a guitar,</p>
Not a tennis racket, so I was</p>
Frequently at the mirror,</p>
Screaming with joy and</p>
Patience. I could speak, so</p>
I learned to read and read</p>
Aloud old, dirty books with</p>
My back against the TV set</p>
To be the anchorman and</p>
The scientist. I had a friend</p>
Called Silence that fed me feta</p>
Cheese and crisps as I was</p>
Guarding those primeval,</p>
Priceless hours. I had a house</p>
Called Music where Id sit</p>
With her to wait for death</p>
To ooze from the speakers. At</p>
Twelve, I had a harmonica.</p>
At thirteen, I was singing to</p>
My dads friends, sometimes</p>
For recognition, then at times</p>
To please him. I was crying a lot,</p>
But that was because I was a</p>
Coward. I never cried again after,</p>
At fifteen, I got a glimpse of</p>
Fame and fellow mans greed</p>
And worshiping contempt. I</p>
Was a hyper-active, arrogant,</p>
Annoying prodigy with a lean</p>
Tongue that, at the first few sights</p>
Of insincerity, never ceased cursing</p>
And being a little brave, too. At</p>
Seventeen, I started to smoke and</p>
Play, so by twenty I had come out</p>
Of heroin with having written</p>
A lot of poems and songs.</p>
At twenty one, I met her, this</p>
Beautiful, tall, deep, dark and</p>
Complex young woman who</p>
Took me in and lived with me,</p>
Filling me with fear and longing</p>
And teaching me food, tact and</p>
Conversation. She left as I turned 25,</p>
With tact, of course, a long</p>
Dark coat and a few seamless,</p>
Shameless lies. I drank then and</p>
Lied about my passions, and</p>
Got myself an education. On the</p>
Course of those witless, murky</p>
Years, I remembered how to sing</p>
About what mattered in ways that</p>
Didnt matter much, so I came</p>
Back home to see what dad was</p>
Doing. He, as usual, was full of</p>
Strange hopes and intrusive dreams</p>
Hed mistaken for something elusive</p>
He called future, so I drank and lied</p>
About my passions and got myself</p>
A crowd to get busted with.</p>
Now, at twenty seven, Im still</p>
Admittedly drinking a few drops,</p>
I wont lie. Not even about my</p>
Passions, I cant. Im not seeing</p>
Anyone as much as Ive been known to</p>
And have fallen in love with an</p>
Old friend who likes my poetry.</p>
I dont talk much I still cant get</p>
My head around the flash of</p>
Yielding to the acceptance of</p>
A penetrating probability </p>
That proverbial seven year cycle.</p>
Nëse artikulli ju pëlqen ndajeni me miqtë tuaj në Facebook
Posted in Lart & Poshtë, Letërsi Tagged: genc salihu, poezi
Per me shume artikuj te ngjashem vizitoni: http://tiranacalling.wordpress.com/?p=3206