White and Christmas-like, the cathedral ascends to a hallowed purity of its bell its stones bound to each other by time. Its stained glass is the very thing of beauty, that is much like December’s frost crafted like our Nativity’s balcony star, eastern star that traveled all our night.
Our enslaver’s beauty worshiper pastor swore more by white beauty than piety,a Posnet purely petrified, in English stones ,hauled from across white imperial seas.
(on visiting the exquisite Church of Medak built in the imperial times by Reverend Posnet)
Not a bad idea to start writing about oneself and for oneself. It is such relief to know that you can write without embellishment .
The fear that this is all going nowhere ,that you are leading towards an emptiness which fills your future life haunts you all the time. The vast wild wastes of time,that is. When you start feeling alright there is the contrary feeling of not-alrightness just behind you like a shadow in the afternoon.
Some times you feel like robbing others of the joy of feeling absolutely alright when they have got to be feeling not alright. You want others to feel down because there is a need for others not to feel alright.
There it is my own mountain with a mouth open at its top ,a hole in childhood village where monks lived for peace.These late poems breath life to the old choked with bare trees.
A good old poet sets about re-ordering pines avoiding the clutter of the top clouds,to be free of unseasonal rain with resultant mud to sky. Rain drowns a pine’s loneliness at the top, late poems are about.
Krishna’s mountain frees us from pebble rain of angry gods when we are down in its under,what our late poems are about.
On the road before their houses are women in turquoise and blue, their heads and back bent to the wet earth- sweeping and sprinkling.The way elephants do in the morning forest.Their mothers-in-law had done it in their time. Like them the earth smelled of their bodies.
And the children wait for school in uniforms for yellow buses to stop before wet patches careful not to tread on rice powder designs their mothers had made on their wet patches. Their designs are pretty but highly transient only to be eaten by sparrows of the morning. The sparrows have become heavy in stomachs of rice powder eating from beauty designs.
But the sparrows are now not there in mirrors.In the afternoons they were pecking in mirrors at their sworn enemies of themselves in the mirrors of women when the latter combed oiled plaits for the evening. The birds have perhaps gone of morning sickness or of far too many cell phone calls in their air.
The women love their afternoon gossip ,you see. Luckily mothers-in-law are now gone for good,like sparrows that have gone from the mirrors.
In the stillness of a night the objects cry out, dance mature nature to life singing human songs mostly of flesh . A flesh sets the word chain to music, a milky way of endless light sounds.
Like a breeze blowing in tree clusters flesh is object in a cluster of sounds ,a song without its literature, a sound of a subject that is at once the object ,a song that sings itself to object-hood.
Woman poet muses about sun dangerously drilling fem holes, the sun planting ultra rays in the under-skins of women in sun.
He gets dangerously close to women poets and their modesty is at stake, impelling them to turn highly bound women terrorists.
His flowers turn up on their arms of sufficient sun power to women. When his flowers turn sun flower oil they are good for us male hearts.
Our laundrywoman dies and darns. She also makes our sarees fall so well. We ask please do not die, just fall. Our sarees await their glorious fall during the ensuing wedding season.
New sarees go up for wedding sale. We fall easily for their silken rustle. We need your fall, lady, do not die.
We wear your fall and please do not die. Into our silk sarees we fall headlong.