Faults
When the sun sets
Without my seeing it.
For being lost
In my own dream.
Forever going back
To recover
What can't be recovered,
Like when we walk
And talk
And I become lost
In my own streets.
I can never find
A way out
Of me.
Here's what I mean:
You came into my life
Like a storm—
An unexpected cloudburst,
Now your rain
Darkens me
And makes me think.
I used to be solitary,
Independent…
But now my arms cling.
This time I will not comment on the poem, which I like, just on my surprise that there are still so many people cultured enough to love poetry.
I have noticed among Africans, that there is a need to write poetry and I enjoy the fact that they are not embarrassed to do so, even if their command of the language is not good - I try to advise them to write in their own language, but I guess they are hoping for universal acknowledgement. It is also in those poems that I sometimes find tiny gems that make it worth my reading them.
I lived in Cyprus for 11 years and it constantly amazed me the way it seemed that almost every Cypriot writes poetry, or else loves it so much they will spend hours listening to poetry and the discussions about the poems on radio.
That reminds me of Russia, at least decades ago under the Soviet regime, where thousands would gather to hear a poetry reading by Pasternak, Vosnesensky or Yevtushenko...and if they forgot the words, the crowd would shout it back to them.