a protected post follows -  

PSTD Spends The Evening
                                     While Pearl Talks To Her Lover
                                                           And Seeks Solid Ground

The girl with scars
on the back of her neck,
you know,
the one
with the long silver hair
hiding in the long blonde hair,
the one looking in the mirror,
she needs to go,

gotta bug out of here
where's the door now.
Now! 

She can't stand
the ambiguity
and if that's not it,
she'll find
something else
another reason
why
she has to go. 

She has too many imperfections
and she really can't stay. 
That's it. 
Where's the door? 

There's the razor blade
bared
on the thin edge of hope,
and she can't live there
because she bleeds. 

The door,
where is the damn door. 

Stay for the promise? 
Sweet. 
But promise
never stuck well
to my skin
and the sweetness
always slides off
getting that barbed wire
out there
in the open again
snagging my fuckin' life. 

Don't call me lover,
but you can punch me
if you catch me
in time
before
I hit the door
better hurry
I'm gone. 
Gone. 
I'm out of here. 

Let go my arm. 

And if you won't,
use those,
use the old holes,
it's easier,
I've been crucified
on wanting's cross before. 
The holes never close
fully
how dare they
you won't have to hit so hard
since they're still open. 

Let go
please let go. 
That girl
with scars
on the back of her neck,
you know,
the one
with the long silver hair
hiding in masquerade
as blonde,
that girl? 

She's walking
right back
into the black place
where it's easy
and the night has names
she understands.

                        The Late Ustad Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan
                                        and the Qawali

Qawwalis are sufi devotional songs from the subcontinent, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan probably the greatest master ever of the qawwali.

I've listened to Nusrat's cd's all day today, brought back again and again to the qawwalis  by Ifti's statement yesterday that it is the beat of the qawwali, a straight 4/4 beat, relentless and unlike the more intricate rhythm patterns of north and south Indian classical music,  that opens the door to the trance state, the goal of sufi devotional music, after all.

 I'll have a longer post about this incredible singer later in the week.  Meantime, here's a link to a video of the late Nusrat and his nephew and vocal heir, Rahat.  (start with the top of t he video links.)

The one with Rahat and Eddie Veddar of Pearl  Jam with a song from Dead Man Walking takes me apart, knocks me down.  Rahat's voice is vastly open, expansive, pure and the phrasing simply exquisite. (when have you seen me write in superlatives?  almost never....)

This singing is, for me, just about as close as it gets to the divine. 

pearlbamboo

draft -

The great slow time machine
Circles the same country,
Desolation Court, 
Honeymoon Lost Lane,
End of the Line Boulevard, 
Past
Broken Hearts'
Hall of Fame. 
Next door to the 
Heartbreak Hotel
On the cul de sac
In an older development.

I want to fly,
Straight up,  
Eliminate negotiations
With the timekeeper,
Demand
One wild
Ballistic blast
Into joy

pearlbamboo

copyright  e.p. hodges

                                     Coffee With Ifti

We had coffee this morning, Ifti and Lily, relaxed and feeling, he said this, that we had been friends for years.  He lives only a few blocks south so this may happen again, as there seems to be no gap or lull in  the conversation, no need to fish around trying to figure out what to say, both of us coming at things from the viewpoint of two cultures, rich, that was, for me, and taking no time to feel around and decide whether or not to go deep, just doing it.   

                                     A Gathering of Urdu Poets

I went to a poetry reading last week.  Everyone was excited because there was a Chinese poet there, "Our first international poet."

I wondered how many of these people knew of the mushaira, a gathering of Urdu poets, held in halls and homes, formal and informal.  International poets -  here was this tradition I was sure was alive and well in Chicago. These open mikes reminded me of mushaira, more so than anything in my experience of the English-speaking world.

You'll fnd Ifti's book here.

A saguaro cactus, you,
Needles like nails in your arms,
You embraced me at midnight.
I pull needles
Out of my sweaters
And skin
Again and again
And do not know
Why they were invisible,
Until I was shot through,
Boiling with pain,
Though I do recall
My heart's soft eyes
And their complicity.

draft -

in dry time, 
you wrote me
that letter
in white ink
on white paper.
no blackberry juice
left from summer
to use
on your fingers
to trace goodbyes, 
your mouth too full
of stones
to speak
so I could hear you.
nothing left,
no rocks from the moon, 
no lemon pie,
just that white paper
where you wrote
how we broke
the first time,
last fall 
at dinner.
I watched your eyes
leave the table,
forever
ending
the feast

pearlbamboo

copyright  e.p. hodges

A protected post follows.