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.
Their ghosts were potsherds , standing on one leg. Their thin insubstantialness rose up to a hot sun showing up in cowherd clothes, waiting for bus. The then cowherds along with cows turned souls standing among the potsherds of the then mud.
Mud comes in combinations of things and men. We break to reinvent them afresh all through time under the same sky, with a blazing sun studded in it.
The next time you visit ancient archaeology sites, look for potsherds of our earthy existence in wall plinths.
Behind every word is weird notes that lead up to a new poem of light , like for instance some ants getting back -stabbed by caterpillars turned winged butterflies.
Butterflies are not yet hitting us on our windshield .Their wings are yet in imagination’s forming .There is raindrop falling from a temple stone frothing into a plastic drum in heavens anger.
There is rain on your silken robes for God, as if there is a patch of anger’s sweaty mist. God will smile in flowers smell and music of pipe , butterflies everywhere forming my many colours.
We share a secret with the dead in yellow leaves. We feel it softly touching bones in the wistful light of a shopping mall where we go to pick up beams of light that need to be colorfully knitted in our own shadows at home, the ones we buried under our walls.
In the urban glass-palaces we feel it in our vacant eyes, in ears, when it touches their drums beating on them to bring out their fine city music, in its singular rhythm.It is the fever of its wood and glass, in its electric frost.