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.
Awaking is moving away from bliss,from sleeping on dreams of not awaking. City drags itself awake on subways, an old black poet’s poetry awaking.
Here are no subways to awake a sun, just cattle filled roads swishing tails, late night drivers bleary with sleep,an old brown poet’s poem awaking.
A dad and uncle play shuttle ball with son and nephew. From the parrot green bench one extrapolates that everything is pretty and spring.
Morning was spring that had come as a surprise to the old man in autumn. A vernal surprise , the leaves turn light green with nipple sized mangoes on spring trees .A man gets up to go, a towel slung on his shoulder. A woman hangs out a balcony like a wet cloth drying in spring sun.
For a while ,the old man forgot all about his winter.
Old man’s autumn has fallen away.
White fluffy things roam aimlessly,
Dry white bougainvillea are paper,
Some shreds of clouds on a lazy sky.
Woman steps out hanging balcony
Man adjusts towel on his shoulder.
A child in street plays as silhouette.
Old man counts his vernal surprises.
Spring is a surprise.
When you are behind a balcony parapet wall, the day sounds as if of the sky with all its colours and smells.The sounds come filtered in the opacity of a middling wall ,on which stand majestic plants, embedded in the earth of pots, but equally proud of their lineage under the sky.
Tiny saffron roses, four of them, sit huddled together in the breeze.They draw their inspiration from the distant earth of elsewhere. But their dance in the breeze is just like it was when they had their first feet planted in the vastness of the earth.