A big bright moon flutters on the building
Red and dead, pale from a far off eclipse.
A local eclipse over mom – sponsored bath
Is only recalled as we remember her dead.
The moon is dead from mother’s story on,
A moon rising to be dead for eavesdropping
On a demon taking nectar to stealthy lips
Defying a moon-like beauty in rows of gods.
A hunter’s moon shall rise, whole and bright
To be slow-eaten in crumbs by a penumbra.
Good, we are not to be blamed for this here.
It is a bloody American moon that is eaten.
The thread around a tree is dream
Woven by battered wives, for son
Needing visa or husbands health.
They tie the aging tree’s torso with
A hundred rounds of their dreams
As many as the rings around its life.
The tree has its dreams in leaf-ends,
They make a screech sound when
Children slide fingers in spit on them
To produce funny laughing sounds.
If only the tree could have a thread
For its own dreams, when its leaves
Make a soft moaning sound at night
When battered by a far off sea wind .
I have tried out this thing in film
A voice from space above, about
A fan whirring , closely followed
By the dying man, whose woman
Yanks out a story from a curry
As his eyes follow the fan’s whirs.
What if the eyes stop and curry
Stops frying in a pan with no gas.
We stand dead for want of space
Or lay dying while watching fans.
A standing in train is gentle nudge
A hello to kids with ball, a struggle
To keep up the logic of what follows.
Everything seems so non sequitur.
( Imagery from the exquisite Hindi film Lunch Box)
There is rain above the platform
Empty in descent from the sky
Like sounds sloshing in a hollow .
Voices jostle with flies and bags
On thick porters in red dresses
And worn with holding suitcases
Of stuff weighing down on men.
Bags in revolt against head cloth
Rest like coiled snakes on heads.
The waters snake down from roof
Falling to the gravel on the track.
Inside the station master’s room
Night is broken by a single lamp.
A voice announced an unknown life
Deciding to call it quits too soon.
Our politics goes on like onion peel
To reach the tearful center of nothing.
Let us cut it to thin rings of slices
For a farmer’s hungry mid-day lunch
So he makes stuff for other stomachs
His own stomach lost to onion peels.
Onion is bankroll to feed hunger games
About men thirsty for a palm’s climb
For gods’ nectar where tree meets sky.
Its peels go well with the gods nectar.
At night a white wet place would come
Out of nowhere, with high boots in mud
An earth falling off to white snow in tea
A tepid tea to warm military stomachs.
Further down would be a turquoise lake
Lapping up against the enemy country
On other side, with their military boots
Stomping their ice, rising in icy silence
Their men looking all of them the same.
The hills would rise in their brown mud
Stripped of ice drained out last summer.
Their water rivers are bloody capillaries
That trailed off to lake’s turquoise history .
But for now we are still in that wet place
With military boots sinking in white ice.
A temple is swathed in ice that must be
Having an oil lamp to light dark innards .
Everything has to be wet , even a flame.
(Chang La is a high mountain pass (17000 ft) in the Himalayas on way to the beautiful Pangong lake)
The man comes back from the holy river
Where he renounced a certain vegetable
The bitter one had always tasted terrible.
(Please leave behind here for your dead
All you consider dearest to your bosom,
Said a muttering priest of the ice river.)
We say return from a river purely bathed
After you have done your hanging thing.
The naked men would come from the hills
Their purity not yet tested in a natural sky.
(Here we write pure poetry in an azure sky
About waters that washed down corpses.)
The corpses had renounced all the worlds
But their sun went on to rise regardless.
The naked men have renounced their clothes
But now what to do with hanging things.
We have no tears enough to wet our eyes.
But we have genteel glycerine tears made
To stream down our eyes and keep them wet.
But what to do with the hanging things.