Grass words

In the grass again its blades are familiar to the foot, soft on the underside and gently yielding. They provoke thought in words carelessly thought,  but leading to essential meaning.

A man in the bench is drowned in words, words that issued from his lips flowing from a newspaper. Newspaper drowned him in words,his pants reeling under the tyranny of its middle spread. Papers spoke through his lips. Of people dead, of roads  not being repaired, of men in topis changing flags.Of bad people who deserved to be jailed.

The bare armed man doing nostril noises is missing. His 70’s song about the girl  in the car not knowing where the rouge on her cheeks has come from is not gently floating in the wind today .

Not the girl  but the song-I can be confusing to myself  in my  syntax,can’t I? .

That is what happens if the grass  is not adequately be-dewed. The dew is now in the word making segment of the left hemisphere.

The other man doing a midriff revolution near the tree is quietly sitting on the bench. He is not even throwing his arms about in the wind.

The cricket near the tree root seems missing. I just pat the tree affectionately and come away.

Morning

The lake shimmered  through the shanty on its edge with a woman sitting like a tree. There was foam in her mouth cleansing the night. The sun shimmered beyond her on the lake, like the glint in a child’s eye. The shadows played on the tree softly from the trees on the edge.

This side there are houses everywhere in lake spaces.People in place of water.and  in place of rocks. It is as if lakes and rocks have turned people. People  who have made holes for themselves like birds in treetops.They have put up flags in their balconies of red-and-white sarees for drying.

The aggregate of their holes makes up the lost lake space. The lake water is nowhere. It has entered their bird bodies occupying  holes in vertical space. The rocks are now rubble. And gravel laid out for people who come down from their holes to bring milk for their kids and for their morning coffee and newspapers.

Corners

Corners are chair legs sitting by old men ,who are corners sitting over old chairs. The legs are old corners of mind spaces.

A poet’s corner comes back to darkness, a howl from old corner ,a chair with legs ,a leg hanging in the howl’s dark corner.

From every corner come rich offerings- a mute chair leg hanging by an old light, a balcony corner for wet clothes to dry.

Images

In the evening we went to the lake to collect our images .There were fish and trees,boulders and algae.The algae spread like a stomach of the lake. The boatman poked sticks in its stomach and came up with leaves which would turn food for formation of  new leaves on trees outside the city. Leaves grew out of leaves, then dead, now alive. They alternate between life and death, sun and shadows.Their dead bodies turn yellow and fly gently buzzing with the autumn wind.

The fish hid under the algae.The algae hid over the fish. Both fish and algae were dead in the ultimate analysis.Then they would take birth as new leaves,new fishes.Everything went fine for the boatman, for the fish woman with a basket of fish. The fish woman turned a silhouette at dusk. The fish did not turn anything. Later, they will turn to ashes in somebody’s stomach. The fish woman will turn to ashes too. Later. But the boulders in the lake remained so that cormorants could paint them with their droppings. The boatman froze near the boulder with the paddle in his hands. He too would turn to ashes .Later.

The camera wished to eat the sun in the lake. But the sun wanted to eat the clouds.  Later, the camera will turn to ashes.

Museum

We saw ourselves, a rod travelling on rails falling off  because it was not shape enough for the rails.We looked at the dark promontory of a day’s night and that made us dizzy, so many stars , so much time. Time sucked us in, our life in a limbo when we walked jauntily. We slept with our eyes open ,our breath slowly being taken away.We were alive like the dinosaur that had existed in the wild plains and now lives in this hall, sprawled in white bones as time stretches. The very bones that had lived before we came.

Our  own bones wept for their dust and the rivers they have to float in to reach the sea. The mathematics of blood that went haywire, as their zeroes on the left went multiplying infinitely .Nothing really mattered , not even the hair on our head that stood erect in tribute to the magnificence of the dome.And  the dome went on endlessly abolishing our body, the bodies in the heavens and  embraced the mindlessness of being a stone , a mere flicker in space.

Our journey began. Nearer  death we are now a rod on the rails that lost its shape. Our rails will continue their journey with other rods that still have their shapes, until they too will  lose their shapes.

Fragments

We were concerned with fragments. Little clouds that hung over cities.  Fluffy cloud polygons that held promises of rain  because the pied crested cuckoo said so on its northern journey. We went  cuckoos over our  tiny streams , the waters that ran below our feet. The fragment would fill whole streams.The very waters which our machines had probed tearing the earth’s intestines. The earth had blood then in white fine powder.Our feet are still in its prints.

The fragment hung lightly over our lake, tantalizing the city. It was a shapeless polygon that changed its shape like an amoeba., a single unicellular organism with deceptive false feet.By dusk he it became a shred of gray, a blood smear in the death of the sun.

The old man in a white beard

On the hill is  God’s man,  with a white beard and  hoary locks of history. He is chipping away at firewood , without taking his eyes away from the wood even for a second. His wood-ax catches the stick in mid-air.His white beard becomes  part of sunlight, a flash of morning light through the tree branches. He must be from a distant sun-land , on a brief visit to the hills for cutting wood.

His wood is now sticks ready for their fire. He enters God’s house to light a flame for Him. And for us so we can see the flame in God’s eyes.And drink a palmful of God’s water with a sacred sounding slurp.

There is another God in the dark cave. He flickers as a lamp at the end of the cave. Between Him and us was an abiding darkness, unfathomable love to our  eyes.Our eyes try to swim in the darkness but without a gliding torch we drown in it. 

A helpful teenager brings a torch. The old man in hoary locks must have broken his silence.