In the inner most of your word and melody a reading goes, a word quietly tucked away ,a moon caught shining . A dead poet writes a letter to a young poet rustling a memory.
A yard is tall springs from a word, its melody a Rilke of god pontificates to a young poet.A trial by fire, a catharsis, is where a nose blows and its melody is arbitrary hum in the head.
Write if you must, if your yard overgrows ,a vegetable crawls in pumpkins on ground. Its flowers turn yellow moons on the earth.They are word and melody of a poet’s letter.
Their flowers are moons fallen to the earth .
We went into the fort of nothing ,an exaggerated way of a defense ,a bunch of shrubs weeping sun. Where are the men who needed all the defenses against others? A stone gate opened wilderness,
defenses dropping everyday sun. Pray, what are others against?
A farmer standing in green cow- was he a defense against dust? Not so ancient man drops a sun as we stand here in green rice. We are defenseless ogglers of beauty to drop our own suns, just trying to fortify our bodies against dust by a fort wall of art.
(on a visit to the ruins of the Rachakonda fort)
We are in a different night today ,a night made up by trains blaring, tall coconuts swaying to rain music and short walks on a patch of moss-black on a terrace roof dried with rain marks. The coconuts hang heavily on the parapet,their older ones waiting to drop on unsuspecting heads below. The guavas ,ripe and yellow, have disappeared in the parrots’ stomachs but their hollowed telltale shells are still there on the earth.
The hundred gold coins flowers are conspicuous by their absence but their fragrance can be imagined on their heavy branches near the compound wall.The cobbler is mending passers-by in their sandals under an umbrella ,with a stone slab polished smooth for the cutting edge of the leather.The dog in the second floor is hiding behind its loud barks but not much hostility is expected today ,on a cool evening like this.
From the green bench, after the fall of the almond leaves ,we see men on the track rotating clockwise. Men are wise to their clock.
Death is our shadow ,January to February as the months rotate like men in the park. Soon we will be in February with its own shadows. March must bring snow and wind. There will be new suns in the hills. There will be snows of forgetfulness.
Known largely as the undying ,now about to die,a head of hair ,a self-confessed undyed head makes confession on deathbed.
As this wind is a source of chimes I make my confession to birth, a swaddle cloth smelling child doing reference work on sin.
We will not paint sinful heads in a wind that will quickly die. When allotted births in a train, sex is tricky on upper berths and yet we confess to our births.
(Reference Anne Sexton’s poem “With Mercy For The Greedy“)
It is full moon day for wishing your husband long years of life. You do it through a wheat flour sieve .
You frame your full moon neatly in the circle of your sieve .
Back in my childhood we ate piles of moon like pancakes while the girls would fast till they ate their pancakes in the evening praying for husbands cool like the full moon.
The chemistry of a winter sun goes well with history’s rocks and the gnarled trees of yesterday’s leaves. Stumps of fallen trees sprawl in the rocks of history as men make their way up on polished stones of time’s footfalls. Up there is a red temple to an ancient mother alongside brown boulders warm with tender sun. The trees shake with birds chirping like the voices of children waiting for the teacher to come.
A certain village official had bought God’s jewelry from out of the State’s coffers. Here is the dark of a cell in which he had spent years before he was released on God’s intervention. But dark doubts persist as brown-winged bats that have lived till today, that come to hit you in the face from history.
A matchstick is not seen as a flame but heard. Across the boulders and the blue sky, to the King’s palace at the top to alert him of unwelcome guests.