A feeling Rilke died by a beautiful rose.What poetic death, his stone Apollo declaims, in a torso that gazed facelessly. It was light from the rippled muscles.
Apollo lost a face but not the dark center where procreation flared for beauty .Like his peer in marble, thinking lived at the center of his body with not a place that does not see you.
Several images hover and then devolve on walks , in a walk’s thought on grass away from creatures, men and buildings as dry leaves come flying, wiggly worms emerge from the earth in its first rain.
In its velvety softness lay a rain-breeze ,an index finger richness for feel at the tip ,soft at the core, walking as in its dream ,a tiny four-footed red velvety creature ,that may laugh in new matchbox home.
The thing has to exist in furrows of rain ,amid columns of sleet ,dodging though giant pillars to sky, whose stony selves fizzle down to clouds as our eyes look up .A white killer hail falls like pearl-drops on their soft rich redness, their velvety bodies may lose their backs to the pearls their ruby existence wiped off to dreams. A child’s matchbox is a much safer home.
Those were endless words in Abheri raga about our God who stretched end to end of the deepest sky.
We stood breathless as His feet measured all the three worlds under palm umbrella ,one foot on our head. His wooden slippers made no clicking difference to our sweaty silence.
Our panic held a bunch of iron keys in its fists. Our death went out of our body as the keys opened inward sadness, a body held captive as he measured infinity starting from our head.
I go into the very slush pile of words plucking poems in a recent movie. Boy and girl kiss in squishy mud as in circus feat high on the roof. We yawn into this slushy movie.
A kiss takes place in stark mud. It was high like simile’s circus, one attempted in the top of tent. All the while the tent is a sketchy sky with its hole , a chink letting in starlight.
Tent is very rope bridge balancing history of the country with movie going love. Bridge undulates like terrain, like waters about a head in river.
A bridge is like a sword that swells to feed army to free the country. My word comes out of a slush pile ,a poem for the day from a night.
(after watching a movie “Rangoon)
We have been in old temple ,a long way to know and feel our [people] crowd ,children and moms who lay sprawled on the frayed green carpets under a sky of bamboo roof with stars of sunlight holes their faces lit by God inside.
They had God’s food in belly and now they rest smoothly on their well oiled stomachs and wait patiently as God sleeps.
Now they take the ox on rent ,a young ox with bovine future that lies with God’s men when he is set to the plough. Ox circumambulates temple for man’s wife to bear child. Ox is their innocent God fear. It is just 100 rupees for rent.
God sleeps inside old stone as we pray for our own sons for their wives to bear child. We search Him in sky chinks.
Inside a window is life and its poems behind a grille ,plants in their breeze and words straight under the night.A canvas stretches through the wires bringing the world inside of people typing away furiously after the seas.
Wonder what they are doing rubbing their eyes of disbelief, sending down stuff and thoughts to me, the obscure recipient, typing away here in a hole.
The wires cut the trees in their smoke.A scrap of sky evaporates above them till a sun will arrive to redden its face.The daily noises wait till it fully reddens and disbelief ceases to be suspended.
The ruins resounded with their mantras as our footsteps felt the monks’ ghosts striding in and out of the empty rooms whose burnt bricks went into a huddle in sun-burnt bushes and pieces of rocks.
The sea lapped up against the bare hills like it did when it had first brought them from distant shores, for Buddha peace. We climbed down the hill to the calm sea that would rise like a wall up to the point where the sea ended and the sky began.
(on a visit to the recently excavated ruins of Thotlakonda Buddhist monastery in Vizag)