We created the mind with body as an answer to the inwardness of us all. Our doubt fluttered like a bird just out of the nest, breathing Walt Whitman song on lips singing from an alien country in borrowed language of thought.
We still prefer our old dogma that had us scaling Shiva hill ,a snow hill of an endless night while a poison of doubt spread in our bluest throat, keeping a world awake by kitsch songs and the sound of a faint light over houses of burning thatch while bodies stayed all of a piece.
At times, from the dark of a sleeping night, with a wind on leaves gently stalking ,we let our poetry think like a breeze coming from nowhere, let trees shuffle and dance on words sounding like the music of trees, in soft lyrics with their unique dissonances.
We rein in form, our composition of sound, by a parallel conscious swelling with words ,words that quarrel with inward symmetry, those that turn away from lyrical beauty ,words that shuffle like a wind passing trees only to return to the old transience theme.
Just what occurs to small arguments. Like the one day moth that embraces a window-sill,a small argument against a big rain about tantalising light in our room.
We are a slightly bigger argument under a magnificent solipsistic sun.Ours shall go poof in the same way and by the same earth and its dust.
As I turned the corner I saw this man exchanging confidences with a flower tree. He had three lines on the forehead , aspiring for God. His confidences were about God, plucking white flowers from the tree’s darkness. He embraced it for God. He floated on it like a flower.
He eye-contacted me for God. My own flowers were parijats that fell to the earth ,their white faces down and their red feet up. Their feet were red like Krishna’s feet on the tree , mistaken for a bird by the hunter who shot a killer arrow at it.
But we do not have our exquisite God-children dying. From the trees where they sit playing the divine flute they just turn into God who sleeps on the milky ocean, eyes closed, under a serpent’s hood.
A word that comes defines expectancy -an idea in underbrush, expectantly hid in its growth like plastic shining in colour ,a plastic waiting to be picked up by kid.This plastic colour came by itself into bush and underbrush, mere word under brush like a bird sitting on bush expecting to fly its body waiting to fly, an act of crouching.
Now there is a kid expected to pick up expecting plastic colours from underbrush.Plastic colours are colours of our expecting. Colourless plastic are not expected at all.
Expecting stops as plastic gets picked up. Kid has gone, bird has crouched and gone.In comes train raising expectancy in words.Its bird goes up and down on phone wires .Its lights are painting shadows on bushes.Bushes are expecting in crickets creaking but night is expecting things,not just trains.
Night is expecting other nights, other days.
When asked to name things and men ,she would smile like she had just passed a bridge a growing- blind woman did in shadows that held no names. Names were not needed in them.
She would sound happy on her lips , like soft and sibilant ,as if to speak to us ,in a mild sentence, like describing a shadow, a silence that enveloped us as sound.
By the green hedge of leaves we see the women, in a chain, their mouths turned up towards an invisible God.
Between mausoleums lie several songs that rise up as Sunday smoke swirls to join general vagueness of the sky.
Women are upwards with their faces and in their souls , a fine breath of air filling old bodies,on way to their God.
Their God eats butter and plays his flute on the river bank to several girls on moonlight receiving songs from women chains.