A word keeps me in a state of boundedness to a sentence . A mountain child is born and turns a wavering coconut tree , a tree that dallies with the sea wind .The child who was born to the mountains points to a new bird of a plane. Look there is a new bird ! The planes are finally here and their language. But the word is still missing.
Now a poet’s near one is transiting from a hospital silence to a radiated arm. The arm turns blue like the sky and will be nothing like it. I am not sleeping. Please go on with your woman talk while I hear inside my eyelids. I hear the fall of the cascades there.
Let me cut off my ears so I cannot hear her silence, says a poet of a near one who is transiting from a temporary to a permanent silence.
I keep waiting for my anchor word. The word fails when poetry gains. I am anchored to nothing. The mountains melt and turn streams and river .River flows to the sea. The mountain child turns to sea.
Awaking is moving away from bliss,from sleeping on dreams of not awaking. City drags itself awake on subways, an old black poet’s poetry awaking.
Here are no subways to awake a sun, just cattle filled roads swishing tails, late night drivers bleary with sleep,an old brown poet’s poem awaking.
A dad and uncle play shuttle ball with son and nephew. From the parrot green bench one extrapolates that everything is pretty and spring.
Morning was spring that had come as a surprise to the old man in autumn. A vernal surprise , the leaves turn light green with nipple sized mangoes on spring trees .A man gets up to go, a towel slung on his shoulder. A woman hangs out a balcony like a wet cloth drying in spring sun.
For a while ,the old man forgot all about his winter.
Old man’s autumn has fallen away.
White fluffy things roam aimlessly,
Dry white bougainvillea are paper,
Some shreds of clouds on a lazy sky.
Woman steps out hanging balcony
Man adjusts towel on his shoulder.
A child in street plays as silhouette.
Old man counts his vernal surprises.
Spring is a surprise.
When you are behind a balcony parapet wall, the day sounds as if of the sky with all its colours and smells.The sounds come filtered in the opacity of a middling wall ,on which stand majestic plants, embedded in the earth of pots, but equally proud of their lineage under the sky.
Tiny saffron roses, four of them, sit huddled together in the breeze.They draw their inspiration from the distant earth of elsewhere. But their dance in the breeze is just like it was when they had their first feet planted in the vastness of the earth.
The chrysanthemums are stars of our sun, partaking light from wind and worms, a bouquet to no one but earth’s pot, the mother of womb, in its fragrance of earth mother and wind.
A sky overlooks from a blue parapet wall topped with Krishna-black granite like lake mirroring trees, in late evenings. Like sky’s stars they will last for ever.
We wanted to have viewpoint. You cannot have it in a sacred hill .It had no stopping space. Hills slipped down endless slopes.The metallic cliffs were copper red.
A craggy protuberance was just a bird against the translucence of a May sky. Miracles were rife in the rarefied air of the hills. The smiling God would turn every reason to systems of belief.
Up on the mountain a floral fragrance burst on the mystical air. We felt content not to have views to beauty that defied viewpoint.
(On a visit to the Tirumala-Tirupati hill temple)
Garden is a fragrance remembered,soft grass crawling with slow snail,birds singing of changing the world while I sat at the computer trying to change it before the cuckoo did.
Garden is a wood tree standing erect as if it was alive and pretending life,hosting evening birds chatting away with slum kids playing street cricket.
Fence is a running shadow of bush, hiding controverting garden lizard that had agreed with your nothing as it vigorously waved vertical head to every polemic from your poetry.
The spider is your world’s wide web that collected season’s rain pearls sparkling for proud sun moments but gone when you returned from an olfactory inspection of jasmines.
Garden is mama reading in a swing from life’s pages that would be ice,a fire’s ashes and a river’s waters,a death’s fragrance remembered.