Time

“If you love life, don’t waste your time, because time creates life,” said one of the philosophers. The most valuable thing in this world for a person is time. Time is the amount of time we have the energy to do any work or activity. A person who knows how to take advantage of this opportunity is a person who is able to use his time effectively. Because it cannot be stopped or reversed. A baby born just yesterday will go to kindergarten tomorrow, then to school, then to study and, you see, he will start an independent life. In the meantime, he doesn’t even notice that time has flown by. Time doesn’t wait for anyone, or you can’t worry about tomorrow. It should be considered and managed as luck. Only then a person will not feel sorry for the past time and life. A person who knows the value of time has the right to be great.

Time is like a great luck. It is necessary not to lose this luck, but to make good use of it. After all, a person comes to this world only once, and no one but Allah knows how much life and how much time there is in it. Neither his parents, nor doctors, nor others. Every moment can be the last for a person. Therefore, it is necessary to value time, use it wisely and manage it without wasting it.

So how do we manage time? Isn’t it a controlled object?

That’s right, time is not a controlled thing, it’s not even a thing. But time is managed, how do you say? We have often heard expressions like time allocation, time planning, and time sharing. Why do we use these expressions if time is not controlled?

We are always

– tomorrow I will do that work, today I will go to this place, and now I will do these lessons – we manage our time, that is, we allocate it to our important work. With this, we will make good use of our time. We will manage it properly.

But what if it’s the other way around? What if we can’t share it? Or what if we spend it only planning and not actually doing anything?

Then we will be defeated, that is, time will control us, not us. We are wasting our precious time given to us by God. As a result, we cannot leave a good name or good memories in this world. Instead of regretting wasting our time tomorrow, we should learn to plan, allocate, and manage it right now. We should appreciate time when we have time, not when we don’t have time. After all, time is a priceless blessing. Therefore, every person should make good use of the time given to him, he should never stop learning and learning a craft. We can earn back the money we spent, but we can’t get back the time we lost. Let’s appreciate God by thanking him for every breath and every day. Because this time is a deposit for all of us!

Touch

A mahogany of lost leaden high
The namesake kept its promise
The turbulence of sea horse runner
The silver disk is a little low tonight
For Baroque's touch of medias res
The high strung of novelty
The joyous currents of sea beds
Leaves me open stranded 
In an Island of Mediterranean blue
I sing and hum the national green 
The olive touch of Texas to Britain
Ghettos land in the islands of poverty
I skimmed a solistic touch. 

Muskrats in their Daily Work

When you moved from Pittsburgh to Los Angeles all those years ago, you didn’t know that you were losing your relationship with muskrats, and now watching one building his lodge in the stream and culvert out behind the restroom of a rest stop in Missouri, you realize that you missed them. He is getting ready for winter, and the water has just partially frozen. He’s down there diving and building, swimming under the ice. The ice is clear, and he swims with his back against it so you can watch his progress.

“There you are,” Ellen says, coming up behind you. “I came back to the car and wondered where you’d wandered off to.”

You point down to the little creature and say, “Check that out.”

Ellen, who has lived in Los Angeles her whole life, watches it for a moment and asks, “What is that?”

 “A muskrat,” you say.

“God, it looks so,” she takes a breath, trying to find the word, “odd.”

Of course, you realize that it is strange to her who has never watched muskrats in their daily chores, but you and your grandfather used to walk down to the creek and watch them at work, and he used to tell you how muskrats and beavers shared their lodges with each other. He used to tell you that they were two of a kind and shared everything, the way that he and you were two of a kind. He used to paint word pictures about the happy lives that beavers and muskrats lived during winter.

And if it is alien to Ellen, it’s like coming home for you. What has been alien for you all these years in Los Angeles has been coyotes walking the streets at night and lizards crawling up through gutter spouts and across the pavement of parking lots. Something in your body tells you you’re getting closer to being back where you belong.

You think about an ex who you thought that maybe you were going to marry, and then she found out that you liked baseball, and you found out that she was into bondage, and these discoveries were too much for either of you, and then there was no more talk about marriage and soon enough you just weren’t calling each other, and come to think of it, you never even really broke up because some things are just so obvious that they don’t need to be spoken. Maybe the way you relate to muskrats is as big as that. Maybe there’s no coming back from something as fundamental as the fact that you don’t both love muskrats. Or maybe you spend far too much time in your own head.

You ask, “Do you think that you’d ever want to live anywhere but LA?” It’s the kind of thing you’re starting to talk about, where you both want to live. This big trip you’re taking is a kind of test, you understand, to see if you might want to share a home some day.

She exhales a laugh, “And leave the sacred soil? You must be joking.” She punches you on the shoulder, and you know that she does think you’re joking, that the idea of leaving Los Angeles is so foreign to her that no one would ever talk about it seriously. This is, you understand, another test for the two of you, one that you didn’t know you were taking.

If you are to stay together, one of you has to live in a place that feels alien. One of you has to feel out of step for the rest of your life. You suppose that your grandfather would say that you and she are simply not two of a kind. She takes you by the hand and pulls you away. “Come on,” she says. “It’s cold out here.”

It is cold, you suppose, but you like the Autumnal chill. Back in LA the Santa Ana winds have started up again, and you know it’s hot. You wonder if Ellen misses it, and you suppose she does. In the decades you lived there, you never once got used to it. You wonder if maybe you already know the answer to this test. You suppose that you probably do.

Yearning

We are beating emotions, 
And because we are this
And names that breath
We want to rent the earth 
And air without 
Being choked by stares.

We pray that the colours
That wound round our skin
Tire of inheriting us
The prods of goads
And ta-ta-tas of stones.

Or is it you
Who must cease
Travelling down that bumpy road?

Hate is free
But that cruel master
Turns eyes into
Prowling and prancing slaves
Seeking hurt and prey.

So you can cease,
Cease travelling along
The path that splinters
And burns
And you can choose
The other road that says
We are all priceless. 

Then we all can live
As the wind
Not teetering on
Extinction’s face.

We want to belong
To the night as the day
Safe on silent streets
With distant stars
And scanty lamps
Hurt and the terror of it,
Absent as breath from corpses.


Origins

The earth bled out
Untainted & undeveloped tongues,
Interacting with the gift of mime,
They learnt the truth,
Good & evil, order & chaos.

They grew to the circumference of the earth,
Their blood remained red
But they sprouted languages & skin colours
Denying the roots of their birth.

The beating of their soft instruments sculpted into stone
Tumbling, crushing and falling upon the other
Each claiming a preminence of his own
That above his god & empire was the testimony of no other.

Yet, time has possessed a greater testimony, 
For do not most facts in their history,
Sleep underneath sepulchres
Of legends & myths & mystery?

Victor Ogan is a writer whose works focus on existential themes.

You Left Us for the Vast Worlds

Why did you leave us behind,
And leave my eyes tearful, confined?
We stayed behind, crying your name,
For you left us, untamed by the frame of this world.

By your side, I used to play,
I cherished you more every day.
You were like a father to me,
Yet you left, unbounded, for eternity.

If only there were a cure for death,
If only we could hold back its breath,
A soul like yours we would keep,
And not weep in sorrow so deep.
Oh, my uncle, unmatched and kind,
You left us, beyond the world's bind.

Green Engines 

Where data rings around the poisoned
fruit coiled like the

Original sin bacillus but we're not quite
dreaded out 

Yet, foiled the plans of egomaniac
gods with blackened

Wings flapping like a cyborg fan-machine-man
over the 

Tweaked and roiling
abyss of

Scissors, there remains
a system of drillbit girls with heads like

Hammerhead sharks wearing
Polynesian skirts around the issue of 

Unholy orders, fringed, frayed, stripped
Boredom town 

Cross-hatchings in an 
addled adult 

Comic type
Stripped to 

Ill 

Turning 75 Three Times

	1-
Self-portraits by Picasso:
elbows where the head
should be, mouth and eyes
randomly scattered,
a mass of color; 
body parts trying to connect

	2-
Novels in three lines
like Japanese death poems:
a few words summing up life-
more than enough

	3-
Remembering morning at
a still lake: false dawn 
suggesting light with a
persistence of fog refusing
to lift-lines written in lieu
of mourning. 


White Noise Twice

	1-
Woman in white-
pale skin and alabaster
eyes, a white room
wraith, a scatter of
dried flowers, herbs; 
Emily Dickinson dreaming

	2-
Open Mic with thunderstorm
with unexpected static, 
dimming house lights
then total darkness;
an apology for reading
a war poem that ends
in thunder


Kawabata Six Times

	1-
At peace pagoda-
wrought iron character
for peace. At dusk
a bell rings

	2-
Clear summer night.
Where are the fireflies?

	3-
Still Life with Flower
Arrangement- 

single long stem Iris
in clear glass vase.
Shadows cast on
white interior wall;
perfect symmetries

	4-
Still Life with Waterfalls-

Summer drought reduces
flow. At the crest,
sleek stepping stones-
still a long way down

	5-
A trick of light
on lake reflects
flocks of birds

	6-
Folding origami cranes
for peace and releasing 
them into rivers, ponds,
lakes- a thousand is
never enough


Flood Tides Five Times

	1-
Cornfields on a flood
plain-only the tops
of stalks visible

	2-
Light through spider’s
web between two trees;
a world about to end

	3-
Found, barely visible
in receding tidal pool,
between a scatter of rocks,
a whale’s rib

	4-
After the flood,
gray morning sky;
a broken tree limb
with one bird on it

	5-
Weeks of rain then clear
and warm. The sun feels
strange, out of place

Seeing Sleep Four Times

	1-
Looking up from under
water, the movement
of clouds

	2-
Sleep-letting go
of the body,
the mind moves on

	3-
Light through gaps
between broken trees.
New day colors-
blue sky and rising sun,
almost liquids

	4-
Bone white trees-
moon shadows on
still water.
Nothing moves


White Symphony Three Times
	
	1-
Young woman in white
gazing into a mirror-
reflection in half tones
and light

	2-
Woman seated on piano
bench facing away from keys,
an annotated score open
to a piece for four hands,
two hands missing

	3-
Dreaming woman sleepwalking
in white, silk kimono empty
tea cups in each limp hand;
rice paper walls dissolve
around her.


Tone Poems Three Times

	1-
Outdoor concert at
night, Les Preludes
with moonglow and
meteor showers; a tone
poem with stars in it

	2-
November evening
with freezing rain

Cars sliding
on black ice

Inside a Schubert trio;
safe at home at last

	3-
Stained glass sonata:
musical notes as pure
as light through
colored glass