Babrak.net – Poetry, Philosophy, Politics

A dialethic memory of grey

May 2025

I remember that old flat I had
A small room with plain pictureless walls
A desk, an old sofa, and a Jacobean breaking the room
I never bought a chair

I was young
And somewhat lost
And full of life
And misguided
But as a youth I was full of life

And wine
A lot of wine
And other things too
So full of life and so many visions
But your soft tulip kisses
The softest skin
And touch

It was us two for a little while
You and me
And your soft skin touch
At five in the morning

But visions change
The poet changed
And the room changed
A bureau, a chaise, a serpentine
Visions changed and new shadows appeared
And your soft touch faded into a smile, a stare, a glance
And blames and beasts appeared
And victories too appeared
Without glory to go with them

We were in Rome
And the colosseum was empty
No roar
No Ceasar
No saviour

‘Love me
As much as you can
Love me’

The world turns
Madly
Lost in the dark and empty embrace
Free
And madness
– Oh, madness that I sought! –
It turns with it
As your face turns and shifts
And smoke blows and spins
And wine
A lot of wine
And other things too

As madly as it turns
The world isn’t mad
It just is
And it’s just us

But your soft skin, as I grab your ankle
“You love me!”
I do…

There is little that is

September 2024

There is little that is, but this is,
true,
you
and me
and the rain
and a shiver
of wind on wet skin
and the cold.

The night is for us
as we wait
for the dawn
and the peach-coloured roses
radiate
like the absent sun
in the early morning light.

We wait
in the rain
as the grey of the day
passes
through busy streets
of cars
and people
and jobs
and meetings
as schools open and close
as children learn and forget
as youth is moulded and the elderly are forgotten,
and love is imitated.

As we wait
in the cold
rain
no time passes
because as little that is,
this is,
true,
you and me
and the rain.

I no longer remember the cold.

Stardust

March 2023

‘You have to be strong my son, you have to have broad strong shoulders’
And what are strong shoulders good for?
One does not carry their weight on them,
One does not carry the weight of others either,
They are only good for breaking the doors and the walls
In our journey
In our noble pursuits
Perhaps…

But there is no stardust in shoulders
Stardust appears at our feet
In our journey
In the distant lands that we have travelled
Sometimes together
Sometimes alone

And we have met our Laistrygonians and Cyclops
In our journey
We have met their fathers and brothers too
As their strong shoulders broke our walls
And their strong bodies shattered our doors
And we paid our price
In our journey
For breaking their walls and their doors
Without a heavy shoulder
We paid by stepping over them
And
Being stepped over
And
We met Helen too

To stay with Helen and have stardust at our feet

But the journey calls again
And stardust settles
And
The journey calls again
To meet another Laistrygonian and another Cyclops
Sometimes together
Sometimes alone

‘You have to be strong my son, you have to have broad strong shoulders’
After breaking walls and doors
And travelling the world
From one star to another
Until the shoulder too
Caves
And
Shatters
And…
Forgetting all names
All Laistrygonians and all Cyclops,
All Helens

The stars burn
They burn us to the ground
Leaving nothing but our dust
This one journey is for us alone.
For us alone
For us with broad strong shoulders

Hajar

November 2023

Do you remember killing her?
Do you remember her looking at you – with pride in her eyes,
and a subtle smile?
She won that day, as she took it by the hem and subdued it to her will,
Her cheeks plumped up as she held up a thin papyrus scroll

One day I will speak to Pan
Whose flute was played at the funeral
And he will say that she looked at you and found only fading remains of reed
As accomplishments faded too
And the thin papyrus disappeared in thin air,
to remain with Echo
and drown
in Narkissos’ delight

That day Pan will fall too
Though the flute will stay to remind us of your deeds
You killed her
And as you will fall, and are surrounded with the thousands who loved you
Remember Hajar
For she remembers you,
And now in peace, she will stay
Her eyes full of pride.

Back to war

October 2023

It is happening again. First in Europe, so we care. Then in the Middle East … so?

Do we care?

The plight of white man, if I may for once use this strange depiction, is not new. They have always, like the rest of us, had their struggles. The white man is in no sense different from the brown or black or yellow – or what have you. That perception of colours, if not perception of all things more generally, is fleeting and needs not to be addressed here. White man struggles as much as any another. He has family, children, a job to attend to, and worries that in no way are different form my own. He has his thoughts and dreams, he has a future that is so real and so close if only he dedicates himself a little more. I am a white man, when it comes to my struggles.

But am I white?

When the bombs are falling on the white man in Ukraine? Am I not white?

When the bombs are falling on the brown one in the Middle East? Am I still white?

I do not want them to fall further ‘South’, for I am afraid that I will be perceived as white.

And yet, my plight, my struggle, my worries – are they also white?

But the notion of race, or perception of colour, these things are fleeting. There was a black emperor of Rome – Severus. Should we care? Isn’t perception of colour entirely missing in this context? Isn’t Severus in all his achievements and glory not but a fleeting moment in Roman history?

When bombs fall, everything is but a fleeting moment!

I am safe. I am ruled by a brown man who does not recognise that he is brown. And he defends the right of another brown man to defend himself and his home from future murder by yet another brown man. And that brown man kills and kidnaps to be recognised as a brown man. What are we missing when we are back at war?

We care when it is Ukraine.

But do we care when it’s us, in the Middle East? Don’t let the white man tell you that you are not white. Your plight and struggle and worries are also his. And your skin … is only a fleeting moment in human history.