Dinesh

Dinesh

Posted on 06/08/2013


Photo taken on November 18, 2007


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Richard Blanco


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Shaving

Shaving
I am not shaving. I'm writing about it.
And I conjure the most elaborate idea -
How my beard is a creation of silent labor
like ocean steam rising to form clouds.
Or the bloom of spider webs each morning;
The discrete mystery of how whiskers grow,
Like the drink of roses take from the vase.
Or the fall of fresh rain, becoming
A river, and then rain again, so silently.
I think of all these slow and silent forces
And how quietly my father's life passed us by.
I think of those mornings, when I am shaving,
And remember him in a masquerade of foam,
.........................................

I am not shaving, but I will tell you about the mornings
With a full beard and the blade in my hand,
When my eyes don't recognize themselves
In a mirror echoed with a hundred faces
I have washed and shaved - it is in that split second
When perhaps the roses drink and the clouds form,
When perhaps the spider spins and rain transforms,
That I most understand the invisibility of life
And the intensity of vanishing, like stream
At the slick edges of the mirror, without a trace.

Excerpt: "Shaving" ~ Richard Blanco

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Dinesh
Dinesh
I am not shaving, I'm writing about it.
And I conjure the most elaborate idea
how my beard is a creation of
silent labor like ocean steam rising to form clouds,
or the bloom of spiderwebs each Morning;
the discrete mystery how whiskers grow,
like the drink roses take from the vase,
or the fall of fresh rain, becoming a river,
and then rain again, so silently.
I think of all these slow and silent forces
and how quietly my father's life passed us by.
I think of those mornings, when I am shaving,
and remember him in a masquerade of foam, then,
as if it was his beard I took the blade to,
the memory of him in tiny snips of black whiskers
swirling in the drain-dead pieces of the self
from the face that never taught me how to shave.
His legacy of whiskers that grow like black seeds sown
over my cheek and chin, my own flesh.
I am not shaving, but I will tell you about
the mornings with a full beard and the blade in my hand,
when my eyes don't recognize themselves
in a mirror echoed with a hundred faces
I have washed and shaved-it is in that split second,
when perhaps the roses drink and the clouds form,
when perhaps the spider spins and rain transforms,
that I most understand the invisibility
of life and the intensity of vanishing,
like steam at the slick edges of the mirror, without a trace.
14 months ago.