It is there all the time quietly flowing inside making a strange liminal hum .You wake up to your abrupt dreams.You hear a midnight ocean of sound before morning and the cars begin.
When an unnamed dog stops to yelp, the machine whir of my computer goes soft and cricket goes home to sleep .You wish that the suspended animation stays and you don’t have to flee down a mount with cryptic messages about stream.
It seems the midnight’s poetics is home to made up words, lexical bed-fellows like in incest, guilty in the beginnings. The conjugation falls foul of feeling.
Their caste certificates are forgot soon in excited sounds of a new drum beat. In the end they are our hollow drums beating rhythms on a stale inside air as if proclaiming its emptied content.
An old man’s sarcasm grows by the hour as morning grows to day .There is his face that reflected sarcasm growing by the hour- growing mismatch between the age of the face and of the head thereon.
A woman waves her hands ,in the door-frame, at the hole of a shadow.
Another woman, in the light-hole of a balcony, weaves pigtails out of girl.
A yellow school bus turns violent on its horn, as a woman crosses the road.
This cold morning is winter’s swan song .
This morning we thought about the citrus tree , following the lemon tree in old poem pages. We remembered the big citrus fruits in a garden as we walk a morning.
The citrus brought a crow and a pot with it with pebbles.Shadows of an incipient life near tomato plants and lotus smelling water from a pond. The beginning of an alphabet.
The alphabet grew fatherless and on belly fears. Now it is tired old alphabet shining with strains of an old song. Set to music in chords yet to form a floating music. An experiment in winter poem with song.
We see ourselves in between pages and find our dust there . White silver fish are swimming near dusty spines . Book pages are mortal, starting from where our silver hair ends.
Books are blind to men as they tower over their lives . The blind poets imagine them behind their eyes, from what they had seen in atavism.
From early childhood of the world, the books have collected dust from dark nights . The alphabet to reach them shouts from old mud houses. Slates from mud houses tremble with the letters . The school boards are black, with the white dust falling.
Books are final summaries of our white dust.
In the evening a soft sun was still hanging above the apartments on the other side of the lake as it shimmered from a clearing on the bank. We talked of a mother of a dead son, speculating whether a bond continued to exist between the daughter-in-law and the mother-in-law. Did she matter to son’s wife, after the son had gone? After the link between them has become conspicuously absent, I mean.
A photographer talks of photograph being decontextualised, torn from the fabric of the life it represents. A photograph cannot be true or false because it is not an opinion, a view. It simply is. A photographer omits the elephant standing outside the frame of a photograph and is there a duty on our part to place a metaphorical elephant in the frame to give it a context?
Didn’t the son give a context to the co-existence of the two women? What if we placed a metaphorical son in this our frame?
This morning new leaves sprouted light green on the tamala trees .Actually I have just noticed them. All tamala trees went light and green in unison across the street. Not counting round dark green leaves of another tree in between. A light green parrot cried from an arboreal presence not seen, not felt.
The cuckoo is frantically jabbing its needle in summer morning’s silence but no luck. There is not even a shred of a cloud in the sky. Its rain calls went nowhere. The crow has renewed its call to our relatives from the parapet wall of our balcony as its tail went up and down. The red fruit on the tall tree that stank to the heavens are nowhere now and their smells are gone.
But there is hope.I have found out tiny mangoes already formed from powdery flowers.I even found a kidney-shaped mango on the road.
The days have to be hot from now on. How else will mangoes mature and turn succulent fruit by May?
What if I am a transient creature, a bird of passage ? So is everybody else, everything else.