Eyes Of A Man

I fish out from your eyes of dark sea 

the rising new moon

and paint it into a golden sun.

For when you look at me, for a second, 

my body unfurls like a dahlia in the late August.

Your touch will bring fruition,

Yes, your touch— 


I write you into my poems but a poet is a liar.

For I’m just a stranger in a cafe falling into your stories, where

no spring will come and no winter’s ceremony 

will grace a silent character like me, while 

your eyes flow and dwell at no places.


My somber heart searches for you nonetheless,

and my body, like a dahlia…

I Must Praise Your Body

I must praise your body; 

It’s like the earth’s dark soil

spoiled by the tropical sun, redolent of harvest,

I bury my eager hands into your fertility,

and bring out the rich greenery.


I drink from your lips the nectar of life; spring

is in your saffron-colored perianth.

My body is burning,

from my loins to my eyes,

the battlefield of virtue and sin.


I’m a proud man, broken by you.

The vengeance of love bends me;

The pain of love crushes me;

And forgetfulness saves me.

To P. Schief

Our stars are distant now, brother, 

they are fleeing from us like yesterday’s ambition, soon to be lost

in a used-up reality.

In this concrete jungle, like school children, hardly prepared 

for the whirlpool of life, we too thought youthful dreams could stay useful 

and ideals, time-worthy.


But we hang on to our pen, hour by hour, day by day,

walking on the streets where whores and beggars cut life

into poetry.

Sometimes death grabs one of them and crowns them in a faraway kingdom,

we marvel at the loss, 

we envy,

But we can’t turn blood into ink, 

But we can’t.

We are thirty years old, almost

time for whatever hidden seeds to sprout, almost

time for whatever hidden seeds inside us 

to sprout.

But we can’t turn blood into ink, my brother.

But we can’t.

We can only write and write, wringing the eternal from a pile of wastes.


On the empty streets they give us life and weep with us.

On the empty streets they give us death and laugh with us.

We take and take, hands full and empty, full and empty, 

until we think we have the world in our hands, a handful of dusts

on the last day of October, a burning October.


Our stars are distant now, brother,

the stars that guided us in the first thirty years of our life are fleeing 

into the next thirty years, if only in a fantasy.

But you and I, like school children, have a vision of the world 

where, like Ithaca, the treasure of the earth-and-heaven is given 

after a long long journey. Some reach it in a jet, 

while we must trek through swamps, rivers and even oceans.

We’ll be there, brother, we’ll be there!


Because we hang on to our pen, hour by hour, day by day…



His body shimmered like an ancient sword that kept the darkness at bay.

Out there the war was imminent, Trojans had their ships ready,

But here in this room, he sat forlorn, hair unkempt,

face turned into the shadow that trembled and swayed.

The muscle on his back ridged, the muscle that had the gentle caress

Of Achilles, HIS Achilles, who were looking at him then,

desiring his body, while Eros played in the eyes that followed the curve

of his legs;

The red velvet that he rested on flowed like virgin blood; he must have been in pain.

If he could turn around and look at his eromenos, the world would stand still,

awed by his phosphorescent nakedness.

He knew the fate that awaited out there, tomorrow, as a warrior;

A golden urn would receive him, and his lover too, in a myth.


I’m looking at his body now with eyes of Achilles

and marvel at the flesh that sets my blood racing.

This divine flesh of a man would perish then, stabbed by a spear,

and will also perish now, if he still lives on as I and you and he,

labelled as an erotic crime that once united us all in Greece.


But of course, it was perhaps twenty centuries ago.

Something Peculiar About Him

Something peculiar about him catches my eyes,

his early thirty-year-old face so intense 

with an expression of a pleasure seeker , who, 

at the same time, is slightly remorseful.

The struggle is between his trembling lips 

– the very sensual lips bring me to reverie.

Then he turns to the bar, where men meet men,

a little hesitant , a little withdrawn,

like a young man on the way to his first groom.


The billboard outside will see him in a few hours 

when his erotic fever is gone; In fact,

the billboard knows him as a total stranger to the world,

and to himself as well, 

But his sad look registers all the pleasure that hurts.