The girl wants to be sad white girl because she is brown- and – happy with no irony’s undertones to life. Both her legs are safe from pulling. Brown legs are boringly not pulled.
Somebody looks to be sad in face because the face is built that way. What irony for a puppy brown soul! Poetry has to bear a sad face .It cannot by design be a white lark.
Sadness has no color, only a texture, a little mockery and some sarcasm at work. Melancholy is its beauteous sister, as the Duke gladly testifies.All poetry’s face is made that way.
During the day the insects keep coming in from the sun. In the evening they come from the earth, fully donning their silken wings. Their cousins are our dear old mosquitoes sleeping on the trees in the day.They are waiting for the night to open in our silky mosquito nets with tiny holes like stars. When we sleep in our mosquito nets we live under a vast promontory of white cloth . A lone mosquito enters in between stars and sings its song near our eyes as we close our eyes.
Frankly we do not like mosquito songs. We prefer our own songs in the buzz of our mind. By the little songbirds in our skulls that keep fluttering their wings to drink nectar from our medulla .Our medulla is a deep red hibiscus flower meant for worship and prefers its own stock of buzz-songs . When the songbirds flutter their wings in the mid-air their wings sing a wind-song about the therapeutic effects of nectar .That is how it helps them stay afloat for long periods.
The song in the pocket went like : my king of kings in the garden , my prince of dreams etc. The seventies man has come riding back on round 2 on the song in his pocket.
This morning we came upon a certain Mrs. Porter and a Sweeny who would come on motors and horns. He might have been Actaeon who came looking for a bathing Diana. Mrs. Porter has her foot in a soda water fountain and Sweeny would sure come though he was not Actaeon nor Mrs Porter a Diana.
But at everyone’s back there is a wicked chariot. Not much purpose would be served to stay coy. How Andrew Marvels at her coyness.
When you wake up in the morning you reiterate your existence saying aloud “Alive and kicking!” .When you are old you say “alive and kicking (against the sleeping quilt)”.
In the morning walk you are blinded by the brilliant morning sun in the tall grass waving in the breeze .You say “alive and blinking”. The grass re-asserts your existence as the sun continues to shine warmly on your skin.
In the distance the hillocks sit pretty against the blue sky waiting for the golden sunshine to cover their flanks.
The continual re-assertion of your existence by saying it aloud has a downside. Instead of the long time frame one sets for oneself in younger days, the time horizon is now just one day –between today’s dawn and tomorrow’s, now, so uncomfortably close.
You want to be alive and blinking- at the far horizon where the hillocks sit prettily waiting for the sun’s golden rays to cover their flanks.
In the morning walk I saw this young woman wrapped roundly in a polyester saree and blouse,her limbs stuck to the filament-like saree to give her body a round shape. Like a ball coming fast at you in space.
A red polyester saree enhances the roundness of a woman’s body, its edges softened by the texture of the cloth. There was no fire in her eyes,only a hurry to reach somewhere.
But there is water in the pits!
“you simply take one black tree and set it
against the sky and you have made the world
Big and like a word ripening still in silence”
(From the poem “Entrance” by Rilke)
I am the “ whoever you are”, trying to step out. My word is still ripening in silence and yours? I shall set my word against yours ,when ripe . Like the almond that fell on the road today ,its outer flesh bird-eaten, its inner seed intact- my own word that was ripening these two days. I make the world big and like a word ripening.
In the park there are waves of children’s play-rods.Their shapes roll like sea-waves,colors like sea-sky. Their silence spreads about us making the world big.
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 .