Sudden spring

There is this hopelessly lost thought In the shimmer of a half-thought poetry ,scraps of unfinished poems, their loose ends uneasily sticking out in the corners of the mind.

You wait for words to come, shapes uncertain ,with their exoticism unpredicted and straying in strange territories, with a near hope of transmutation into a gold of spring ,Rilke’s sudden spring and shadow.

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Room

I carry from sleep this very room defined by a clipped table light, an indistinct moth ,a chair plastic in its back and sitting whitely.

I like to be defined by tree back to a sun and sitting wisely on drops of words in light. The chair likes to be defined by a warm bum and an aching back of history, from shadows of night after night sleeping, stomach silent from poems emerging to fingers on letters.

Table light is defined by the room of shadow but would like to be defined by a pair of eyes and the soft touch of a body where it curves on the wall ,with a moth walking in shadow.

The moth carries its room with it on the wall ,a room of light to embrace a result of death.The chair carries a room with it of warm bum bristling with the possibility of growing cold in it.

Images from a childhood

Rifling through pictures ,as of yesterday we have made overdue poem today .The pictures are long and signing in dust from the old attic, with some lively ghosts while wind chimes keep signing somberly on morning silence minus its train blare.

The pictures are sometimes real images of men,children wading in dream waters ,their trousers rolled up to their wet knees. Men are children confused between states of sleep alternating between night and flood.

And the pictures are real of women climbing an attic for the long overdue green pickles and dream stops in the confused minds of men and children, in their mixed up states.The women are yet to pick up their wet white widowed cloths from the wall peg.The pictures are real in children and men in confused states ,in snakes and planes when the latter fall on the falling former in a Freudian sleep mixed up with nose cold.

Silence is brown

All is brown,except under the banyan. The young banyan looks down to send green overtures.  A leaf falls on silence. A bird cries from the brownness around.

Bush and rock are brown. They merge in a silence ,not their own.

They had made holes  in the rocks.  I see four boys  generally fooling around with Sunday curiosity about holes. The holes are full of silence. Silence is brown and some times it rises like  vapour around  bushes.

The boys break their silence and their laughter comes to us over brown bushes.

Flowers on duty

I am back at the green bench after a weeks journey through the snow hills.

Now on the green bench I write this parchi , as they do in the commerce lingo of India’s kidney West. The parchi is a tiny scrap of paper on which key figures are written in a summary form for incorporation in the Cash book before they are finalised .

In India’s kidney West,  if someone is dead , he is off . By extension if someone is new and born, he is on.

Flowers in the Goddess home are beautiful . Flowers are on duty as they breath fragrance into our nights . They are off duty if they lay beside someone who is off. On duty, off duty.

If the flowers land on the garbage pile, after duty , they are considered off duty.

Refusal

I know you have said that far enough in the day’s heat and moon’s hiding. In the horizon I looked far enough and deep in the tree’s silences.

The leaves rustled at the night. What can you do again and now unless art has not left here as yet and senses still matter to the mind.

In the hollow of my downy back your after-being remains as refusal. Senselessness hurts in my fingers as though my senses are conscious and are offended deeply by refusal.

On return to Mumbai

My morning came back full of feisty crows fed on Mumbai garbages and fetid sea-fish of the harbor’s heights, on return from a fragrant harbor.

The day echoed with fallacies and lost moneys in all it was putrefaction and beauty in tatters.The pixels were agitated by lack of sky spaces. The roads were picture-perfect, with rocks flowing and Haji Ali mysteries near the winding flyover.

The sounds of car horns meshed with crows’ caws which were continually shrill and metallic as always.Rukmini’s lying-in hospital and juice beauty parlor nested quietly in the space above the footpath.The hospital’s lying-in endlessly stretched into the windows and piercing the blinds ,broke into the summer sky.