Friends from the office asked if I wanted to hang out with them tonight. I said no. I just wanted to go home.
I thought about going to the gym after work. But I changed my mind. I wanted to go home.
I drove some friends to their hotel. They asked if I wanted to stop by for a while. I declined. I wanted to go home.
I just wanted to rush home. To be with my mom.
When you give a noble falcon
to a fussy old woman who knows nothing of falconry,
she will clip its wings short, for its own good.
Young man, where has your mother been
that your toenails have gotten this long?
Those talons are how the falcon hunts for its food.
The old woman fixes him tutmaj, dumpling stew.
He won’t touch it. Too good to eat my tutmaj, huh?
She ladles some broth and holds it to his beak.
Her anger builds, and suddently she pours
the laddle of hot soup over his head.
Tears come from those beautiful falcon eyes.
He remembers his former life, the king’s love-whisle,
the great circling over the ocean,
the distance that condense so quickly to a point.
Falcon tears are food for a true human being,
perfume for Gabriel.
Your soul is the king’s falcon,
who says, This old woman’s rage
does not touch my glory or my discipline.
My friend’s friend was a victim in the recent Garuda crash in Yogya.
It feels different when it is someone you know. It even feels different when it is someone that someone you know knows.
I wish I have wiser things to say to you. But I don’t. All I can think of is that I want to say I am so sorry for your loss. You are such a strong person, that it makes me sad to see you this sad.
In your light I learn how to love.
In your beauty, how to make poems.
You dance inside my chest,
where no one sees you.
but sometimes I do,
and that light becomes this art.
Note: You’re going to read many of these as I go through his book.