After a long hiatus of rainlessness the lake should dazzle under the setting sun. Camera in hand, I would try a distant view of the sun filtered through the shore trees, the sun a ripe red fruit ,turning to ashes. The sun slowly sank under rows of buildings and a thin red streak glistened on the ripples ,where a water bird swam ,making only the gentlest of the ripples.
The fish sat in the woman’s basket ,on the bank,waiting to be sold, entirely unmindful of the gorgeous sunset.
The long shadows are past ,but the short ones remain.
The sun strikes you on the rim of your head and instead of making a halo around your head sketches your short body on the brown earth in black acrylic color.
The afternoon crows sit lazily on the dead tree’s branches and cry out an occasional caw reminding us of the coming of our guests.
Guests in these burning times when the sky pours out hot sunshine on the leafless branches? The crows continue to announce the arrival of guests with gusto,their bodies heaving rhythmically on the branch.
But where are the guests? The afternoon brought the news of the arrival of a hot girl in my cousin’s home.
She is hot because she was born this morning when the sun was burning fiercely .
My painter friend says her colors are clutter and her figures do not appear. How does one get out of colors?
Our colors are a kitsch, our examples a riot of colors. We are sentimental . We are yet to receive our figures. Rembrandt’s figures make you sentimental by their clutter of colors.
In our dreams we have achieved figures minus their clutter. My mom in my son’s dream is her colorless figure. She is a mere figure, without clutter. What if my painter friend paints figures from dreams, minus their sentimentality ?
Rembrandt’s woman* has a hand on a hand on her heart. But the colors flow from her heart. On the darkness of her room.
(* Rembrandt’s painting entitled The Jewish Bride)
There is a bearded man whom I passed by -a fellow-creature of the world who has not existed for me till now. I exist in his world ,in his microcosm ,when briefly his eyes meet mine – on the mud-track of my walk.
He has now become part of my space-time , a part of my subjective reality.
Further down several ugly apartments rise in silence.Their morning hues seem a dark ignominious mixture of heterogeneous colors .
There is this turban of a square-shaped head and the tail of a towel hanging on the shoulder.
A woman with a checked towel slung across her chest is walking with an arm-swinging jaunt.
There are men in those holes up there,surrounded by red blue and yellow colors .They are not earthlings because they do not live on the earth.
Perhaps they are not men but birds because they live in holes in space just like birds that live in holes in space and come down to the earth for food.
Perhaps we can call all those apartments pigeon-holes and the people pigeons that come down briefly to the earth to eat their grains and then fly back to their holes in the evening.
There is this perspective for you, from the earth below.
Our tall red and blue building towers above the parrot-green monstrosity of the neighbor’s but is redeemed by the brown- dead branches of the tree which swing in the breeze as though the tree is still alive.
Somebody says it is dead and why not fell it.
The tree pretends it is still alive and I pretend it too.
The winter’s risen sun blazes from a wall-less hole of an unfinished house in the street-corner.The laborer’s wall-less house on the road is not a house but a mere thought word.
But a house exists without walls but with a roof .Only it has to rise from the earth, to the sky.The igloo rises without apparent walls but warm and white, on the icy wastes.
Houses exist without roof but with built walls but there is the sky-roof that sends down rains like the God of phallus lives without roof in order that the sky’s rains falls on Him always.
Like houses that exist without walls poetry is built without words but with felt words. A girl of large eyes is floating away toward the sun ,as ponytail and bag compete for space on her back.
Those were my felt words on her schoolgirl back.
Something came up in green beside our highway, from car we stopped, to leak like sky. A lone tree rose in silence on an expanse of rice for future.
A white room stood company with the machine pump to leak water to the rice , a future growing in unknown stomachs in wait.
Tree stood bare into the sky with a tuft of green to a side,oddball green against a blue, broken piece of vegetation stuck to silence leaking there.
Only sometimes when a tree has fallen
The sun comes down plop, it is quite appalling.
Extract from ”the Jungle Husband” by Stevie Smith
The jungle husband proposes to go alone into the jungle a long way tomorrow. So he writes to his dear wife in the city. It is all fine in the jungle , where the landscape is generally grey but green on the top. Only some times ,when the tree has fallen, a big hole in space happens and the sun overhead comes down ,plop! . My God ,it is appalling.
What is appalling? The sun coming down quickly into the jungle when the tree which has so far hidden it from view falls and the sun is out in the open ? You thought sun was way out somewhere in the sky but now it is right here. Its sudden presence here is frightening!
What if I were the jungle husband.I would find it appealing. I would write to my city wife this way :
“sometimes when a tree has fallen/The sun comes down plop,it is quite appealing”