We wanted to have our viewpoint. You cannot have it in a sacred hill .We had no stopping space. Hills slipped down endless slopes.The metallic cliffs were copper red.
A craggy protuberance was bird against the translucence of a May sky.Miracles were rife in the rarefied air of the hills.The smiling God up there would turn every reason to systems of belief.
Up on the mountain a sampangi fragrance burst on the mystical air.We felt content not to have our views to a beauty that defied viewpoints.
(On a visit to the Tirumala-Tirupati hill temple)
As if in death, you watch the celluloid horror of a twelve year-old girl ,lying spreadeagled, shrieking for help.
Knowledge would strike as horror played out in suburban train with three living-dead humans watching a twelve year-old dying of love.
The morning we had a brain picking . That of Maurice Sendak. Kenny’s window opens out on a goat in Switzerland. Obviously it is Kenny’s own window. It is not Kenny’s widow. He is just a boy and it is a long time to have a widow. When Kenny talks a white goat into believing, white goat turns out to be not only goat.
In our city ,goat is famous posthumously in rice biryani. Before posthumous fame,a goat hangs upside down,not so famously,with a tail being the only visible goat. Partial goats cannot be full famous.
Kenny signs off as only boy of his mama. We all sign off as any boys. Like the goat we will be posthumously famous.
Now I think of the crash of the body, its broken splinters shining in the afternoon rain, like tiny mirrors for clouds. I think of birds that are glass pieces embedded in the wall.
They were once airy souls living in bodies of glassy flesh.
I think of fistfuls of birds that beat like mad in glass chests, their pace-makers, working overtime in solid plate glass.
Our poetry shall be without language in a body that has mastered sorrow end to end. This way we shall abolish language and sorrow that knocks against the overwhelming ways of the body.
Our poetry is tightly contained in the body. Like the body it shall die abolishing itself just like the sorrow that bursts from bodies and overflows in hospitals only to diffuse in a general din of wailing humanity.
The ten old men of the middle benches are notably missing, their shouts not heard over the park. They may have come and gone.
Last night’s poem went on about bare thoughts, in flesh and blood of poets on a roll. And who were on a roll, except they who had come as chance events. And my poets are notoriously bucket occupied. Their buckets are full.
After buckets ships arrived to be broken.At the ship breaking yard the ship loses its shipness. It is so much steel , so much wood and so much glass fiber. The ship has kicked the bucket, so to speak. Home or ship,you have the bucket list. And the gray shades of elegiac Gray.
A Saturday riverbed market where buckets are sold in kilos. Where thieves sell a night’s dark deeds.
The riverbed lights fires for those who have fired their buckets. Their bones turn heaps of charcoal. When the rains bring the flood they join the high seas.
We have no phone balance left to read poems into the train’s deep night we made our own towards a hill God.So we go on in a brown pen note with calligraphy as in a forehead.The train would oblige not to tremble like Nepal under a falling debris.
Our forehead obliges with the script but it does not know the balance.Calligraphy is fine, not scrutable .God in boulder smiles knowingly .We will check with Him up there.