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.
In the white of the snow mountains, a donkey gnawed grass outside and then we saw in the shadows of the window, a patch of grass with apple trees bare of snows ,in our waiting for fallen apples ,while a crow , bulky one of hill, would cry from a leaf-bare tree.
We were our donkey gnawing in the parallel universe, for a while only to come back to usual self and nobody knew our donkey except we and poet who knew such sojourns in the parallel world.
(Taking off from Denise Levertov’s poem “Sojourns in the parallel world” )
The girl wants to be sad white girl because she is brown- and – happy with no irony’s undertones to life. Both her legs are safe from pulling. Brown legs are boringly not pulled.
Somebody looks to be sad in face because the face is built that way. What irony for a puppy brown soul! Poetry has to bear a sad face .It cannot by design be a white lark.
Sadness has no color, only a texture, a little mockery and some sarcasm at work. Melancholy is its beauteous sister, as the Duke gladly testifies.All poetry’s face is made that way.
During the day the insects keep coming in from the sun. In the evening they come from the earth, fully donning their silken wings. Their cousins are our dear old mosquitoes sleeping on the trees in the day.They are waiting for the night to open in our silky mosquito nets with tiny holes like stars. When we sleep in our mosquito nets we live under a vast promontory of white cloth . A lone mosquito enters in between stars and sings its song near our eyes as we close our eyes.
Frankly we do not like mosquito songs. We prefer our own songs in the buzz of our mind. By the little songbirds in our skulls that keep fluttering their wings to drink nectar from our medulla .Our medulla is a deep red hibiscus flower meant for worship and prefers its own stock of buzz-songs . When the songbirds flutter their wings in the mid-air their wings sing a wind-song about the therapeutic effects of nectar .That is how it helps them stay afloat for long periods.
The song in the pocket went like : my king of kings in the garden , my prince of dreams etc. The seventies man has come riding back on round 2 on the song in his pocket.
This morning we came upon a certain Mrs. Porter and a Sweeny who would come on motors and horns. He might have been Actaeon who came looking for a bathing Diana. Mrs. Porter has her foot in a soda water fountain and Sweeny would sure come though he was not Actaeon nor Mrs Porter a Diana.
But at everyone’s back there is a wicked chariot. Not much purpose would be served to stay coy. How Andrew Marvels at her coyness.
When you wake up in the morning you reiterate your existence saying aloud “Alive and kicking!” .When you are old you say “alive and kicking (against the sleeping quilt)”.
In the morning walk you are blinded by the brilliant morning sun in the tall grass waving in the breeze .You say “alive and blinking”. The grass re-asserts your existence as the sun continues to shine warmly on your skin.
In the distance the hillocks sit pretty against the blue sky waiting for the golden sunshine to cover their flanks.
The continual re-assertion of your existence by saying it aloud has a downside. Instead of the long time frame one sets for oneself in younger days, the time horizon is now just one day –between today’s dawn and tomorrow’s, now, so uncomfortably close.
You want to be alive and blinking- at the far horizon where the hillocks sit prettily waiting for the sun’s golden rays to cover their flanks.