The quarry hole is so wide it’s bottom is dark as night. The quarry watchman who was born of night is chasing shadows hid in green waters of the hole collected in last year’s rain and frogs.
The dogs are not chasing shadows from the passing cars. Instead they are chasing the smallest movements in bushes.Their stomachs explode with barks like mountains when dynamite hit their stomachs and bottomless holes were formed in deep bowels.
Now stray dogs have stomachs exploding with barks in nights. Now is watchman, creature of night, his morning shadows chasing everyone’s shadows accumulated in the green aqua of the quarry hole.
The child had a well to look in with a bucket lowered gently to touch its perturbed waters in their broken moons. Midnight was fearsome with its green snakes lurking in ghostly hibiscus trees standing.
The boy in knickers could not bend too low for fear in belly, with no Narcissus -love. Fear perked up like a piece of balcony sky and crawled in half-pants to feet below.
The bucket fell to it with deep dull thud as its rope had slithered down the pulley like a vague water snake searching frogs. The waters came up to sprinkle moons in tiny puddles on the stone saucer rim.
Old jetties are useful too. For the old poets to agonize about. Especially with the cameras they hold against their feet, the sea lapping up against them as if the ships still call from the blue seas. Actually old jetties are useful for the underwear ads they carry on them.
Old jetties are useful for the clincher line of the old poet,looking for the ironies of a spent life. For the fine epigrams they make , when their dead end is reached and no new words crop up in the night.
We would mix sulfur and coal for days and let them dry on the string cot in a warm sun. We would stuff the mixture in newspaper cones.
Lighted cones hissed like snakes in sky, only to dive some times to a waiting straw on sleeping houses, recently laid to roof.
We made cloth balls of pebbles in sulfur and coal to bang on decrepit walls for loudness. We made holes in film star smiles on wall posters. We made such sounds in moonless night that birds shut their ears in mango trees with not a single flutter heard in leaves.
Lest it not sound light giving we call it fluff, an idle floater only to get stuck on the way,a point in rays of white light holding head up in big blue .
It is grey irregular irony ball with cotton rays emanating toward reaching earth point where it can land and sprout.
Sure not all that light giving but life giving, to earth below it randomly opts to mix with and sprout in, for future balls ,a lightness of being is about.
Our city astonishes by its love of water and mud. If there is too much silt in drains we use machines but only men if it is not too deep below the earth.
We love drains because we have no space for men on the earth’s surface or in the swift rivers of water when it flows in monsoon over pot-holed roads and sidewalks, fallen umbrellas, open manholes.They make such fine swirls in the rivers on roads.
The men come because the land refuses to budge.The rain-clouds refuse to yield water from their hills.Greedy men of dark mustaches have now taken their lands over glasses of buttermilk made from well-fed buffaloes.
They are now hung precariously on bamboo scaffolds and glisten with drops of sweat on their dark bodies.Their women knead breads in canvas tents on the road.
We build our city on the mangled remains of hills. Our lakes are the wet dreams of pot-bellied realtors.We now make fine holes in sky-space for our people so they can dry clothes in balconies high enough in the sky and they will flutter like colorful flags in the wind.
We mostly sit to worship, with the walls opposite to us leaving no room for getting up and crossing the streets. In the marble our gods listen, from the shelves of flowers and fragrances, as if out in the garden ,in the early hours plucking white flowers from a black darkness one by one.
The walls face us with their hanging gods smiling below a hole that lets in morning sun and some pleasant wind. Many times we lie to worship, with a false roof above us leaving no room for getting up and flying in space above. We mostly worship under closed eyelids, lips muttering.
In sleep gods come dressed in vintage dresses and jewels of exquisite beauty, their light blinding us in closed eyes. We worship gods in the dark caves, their bodies in stone sprouting lotuses in navels and master craftsman is born. It is he who chisels foreheads, hiding our futures in them.
There is fire in the pesticides factory and all you see is television fires, licking tongues of fire and black fumes rising like freshly dyed hair. When you make poison for pests you make them with fire. The fire will at times eat you up, like your poison will eat them in. Their poison is your fire. Like the poison that froze in Shiva’s blue throat and his third eye spewed orange fires that threatened to engulf the world.
The television lives off your fire and poison and death. In your fire and poison are its stomach fires .The fires in their stoves have to be kept going to keep their stomach fires going.. So they will gently stroke your freshly dyed hair as their dramas are played out in the day, screen after screen. In the evening their stomach fires will subside and soon there will be rivers flowing in the sky drowning the sun, the trees and the clouds . The rain will beat their cars so much that the cars will turn blind in their eyes. The downpour makes such fine holes in their umbrellas that they can see the stars drowned in the rain.
Missing humble bees mean cats on the prowl in bearded Darwin’s stretched out explanation. It is that cats are fond not of bees but of mice.A woman there with bees in left leg poly-cast has less to do of phone -selling and more with less poems in ante-room of ageing darkness.
We are humbled by bees ,in leg or elsewhere. At times we have them tingling in our sitting.They crawl our undersides, making us humble because clovers live and die with humble bees with no implied moral of biblical humbleness.
On the dark nights we look up the sky to find missing ancestors, so many of them crawling.We lose count and we are soon blood letting from our left foot of too many bees crawling as if they are the stars we have lost count of.
We looked for our images in sunlit morning spaces we look up, in morning walks ,to move for a while our computer-weary eyes away from light-words.Bleary-eyed little girls sat in groups on the balcony with school far from their eyes , hopscotch on minds.Some men in red dresses moved towards the hill, who worship a certain Goddess of the hill.They moved in hill bushes as if they were a red hibiscus flower that s being readied for worship .
The poet’s earth is a mere drum pursued of little boys.It is the sun who leaves a day at our door and a deed without the incident of fame or the accident of noise* .It is the sun who leaves us our daily image,our poem.
(* “When I have seen the sun emerge”- A poem by Emily Dickinson)