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)
Poet auntie has made an art of losing and leafing through we have lost her.What great artists we were, what joy.
Like her we lose an entire continent and we drift away in tectonic shift and we have a cold mountain risen.
We keep losing our mothers to trees like bird chicks lose theirs to skies, feathers to strange new landscapes.
What great losers we were, what art. In a final losing we would not know what consummate artists we were.
Elegies are gray named after English poets .But there can be shades in funeral fashion.Like flies that swarm eyes quite unpoetically. Gold finches are back or some such things.
Death is something we do slightly unusual but our elegies are usual and gray repeats with some fatal errors leading to dead ends.
The eye witnesses result in waters flowing, a few eye-drops of pity in death scene a Buddha pity of nothingness for people but mere variations on themes of death.
People die and live, in crawling numbers as senses look downwards from a bridge to capture a death, an enterprise closed ,a life that was made from people’s lives.
The variations seem muted and exquisite,in subtle textures as in soft- plaited textiles of check patterns, of death woven with life ,patterns infinitely repeated in grand design.
Remembering is cruel with thoughts about them that swarm like those buzzing locusts descending from far off alien skies, on wings light and flapping to keep them alive.
A child’s stick brings them down one at a time.
Child had nothing against them who were guests from the plains of Siberia to our bushes and to our crops of rice and cereal. They had brought their memories, their thoughts.They had brought memories of many green leaves at other places and other thoughts, other skies.
Child could only bring them down one at a time. Remembering it now is cruel.
I was looking for grandma stories about a princess trapped in an island by the monster captor whose life itself is trapped in a parrot. Everyone seemed trapped everywhere and children seemed trapped on lips.
Now I am trapped in this abstract painting. Open the painting , will you, to stars and the sun who is set to rise outside , now closed by the curtains, the bird still sleeping,the dark crow just back from a long sabbatical in the neighbourhood.
A woman outside is sweeping the sky, outside the curtains, its dust flying in piano music, just above my head and a keyboard that orders its notes. Everything is trapped in something.
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.