His leg bloodied ,yet his arms strong ,Captain soul senses horror of shade but looks years in the face unafraid.
The years are not afraid in their eyes. His dust does not bring tears to them, only a snicker on the curve of the lip.
(We are talking about William Earnest Henley’s manly poem Invectus)
We speak of the portrait of a woman ,staring at the glass table and beyond. She is a language born and raised, to be lost to a breathless infinity, the last of the birds in migration.
She is wall that stares at a beyond and has the murals about all of us.
There is not much of a sun about us where we and our other come from. We would cry hours for a milk pail to make ourselves sick and crying.
We were actually laughing at other. We were not a helpless milk baby. That is the way we pay our tribute to him who trailed us as a shadow.
I ,my brothers and our common wife walked on a steepness with the dog . And we were going down one by one with our serial shadows and several.
My brothers dropped dead and wife when their shadows went after sun.
We two had our shadows behind us, I and dog that was my own shadow. In the end it is difficult to separate shadows from substance, I and dog.
(The scene of Mahaprasthan in the epic Mahabharata)
As we go down in space, we carry wherever we go, our own little space increasing the cosmic space phenomenally . Imagine folds and folds of space around each space tied neatly to a chunk of time and all adding up infinitely to the world.
When we are tree our space folds up beyond the hill where those lights flicker. But when we are ants our little antennae gather up spaces from all those tiny holes that adds to the ever expanding world.
From our holes, we add space to the world.
Setting a price is the foul thing in the mind of an Emily poem. Self-publishing is a self auction in a cyber desert’s marketplace. Be poet about and after death.
Be dead and gone after poetry, as an extrapolation of a long walk for your inside to watch dawn, a price received by the mind from He that gave minds to bodies.
(Referring to Emily Dickinson’s poem Publication-Is the Auction)
This morning as I came out of the park gate I saw the crow pecking away at an angry lizard. The lizard got angry with the crow that was trying to eat it. There was no reason why the lizard should have got angry, opening its mouth wide. The crow flew away some distance ,seeing me because it thought I would get angry. Actually I was wondering if I should get angry at all. I remembered the caterpillar in a poem not getting angry , when being eaten by the ants crawling over it. The poet’s friend merely drew a circle in dirt about the dying caterpillar. She did not get angry. She merely fixed the composition.
I fixed my composition and came away. But I looked back at the crow that got busy eating the lizard. Luckily the lizard was not angry with me. Nor the crow. Even if they were I could not have changed the composition.