This is about the 15th anniversary of the creation of these words. It was written in between night and day, sleep and wake, love and loss. It was the pre-email era; so I wrote it quickly on something that I stuffed into an envelope and mailed to an amazingly kindred spirit in another island thousands of miles away. We: the words, the recipient, and I, lost connection. Although I will not forget the person, I immediately forgot the words and that they even existed. This year, 15 years later we reconnected. The words and I and the kindred spirit that had kept guard over those words all these years. I received them by email, in a scan of the original document. I read them as if for the first time. I could scarcely remember the event of writing them; and definitely could not remember the words. My signature and handwriting, and the feeling of internal memory evoked assured me that I made those words: LAMENTATION OF THE HOMESICK. It is a testament to the indelible spirituality and interconnectedness of TIME and the power of receiving that which one has given.
lamentation of the homesick
GET THEE OUT OF THINE OWN COUNTRY AND FROM THY KINSMEN, AND FROM THY FATHER'S HOUSE AND GO ONTO A LAND THAT I WILL SHOW YOU
(Genesis 12:1)
My tears. My tears are empty for
the spirits of the fathers of my fathers,
the breasts and wombs of the mothers of my mothers buried
in the wounds of the
sieved sheaved
through the
by the shimmering shaggy white beard of the mono-divinity
that omnipotent that soul-less heartless timeless God
that signed no B’rith with me
My tears. My tears are empty like
Judea’s sperm seeping from the buttocks of
pouring down to the banished graves of my history
burning crosses in the sand
Dancing to the sound of an orgy of thieves...
And the music rides the waves of the winds
“
And the music descends to the depths of my blood
“You are the son
He is your Brother your Friend
He is your Father
He is the King of your Kingdom.”
No! The kins of my kins once were gods; gods
that lived in the light of every star
They
are
the greenness of the trees and the wetness of the waters
My tears. My tears are empty for
the swords of the prostrate headless horsemen that lay
praying for the rising sun to ride its blade of blood
to my fathers house now strangled by thirsty turbans
You
who would slit
his son— your brother
remove
the sands from the orifices of mine own country remove
your pegged canvas from the carcasses of my kinsmen
Deliver
me from the shackles of your desert promises
Let me return to my fathers’ house
Let me return to time
