Creative Images

R

nisheedhi — Thu, 23 Feb 2012 23:23:08 +0000

In the night, while it was getting lighter,
The letter R appeared from somewhere
A poem possibility, in curtained window
Of just -write, inside to a dark thinning,
Thinking that is, a mind is filled slowly
With letter combinations of flesh, fresh
And spirit inclined to it from strong flesh.

A possibility yet not ripe, like the fruit
Waiting in the rice jar, for the right heat
To mature its limbs and make it softer
And riper, succulent to eat, throw rind
Into an organic bin waiting in the dark,
A fruit that will mature brownly to gold
Softer to touch , smell before it wrinkles
Of too much heat, in a warm rice house.

Now I look down and see below my chair
A live R of not fresh and spirit but a roach
That has somehow managed to keep alive
In the deadly fumes of a herbal pesticide
Stuffed in the house crevices a year ago,
A roach matured as golden brown poem.

Men are mere images

nisheedhi — Wed, 22 Feb 2012 23:30:22 +0000

I had to open the window in a hurry
Afraid that the night would go away
Yesterday I had held to it for a while
Only to see it melt away with the crow.
The dog is barking in a low of throat
At car-phantoms he sees in darkness
With echoes of its barks for company.
My pictures worked better with night
When men could do their strange acts
In the backstage, hurling their arms
In air for nothing into a space of trees.

In the morning the bare-armed man
Would again flutter limbs into the air
And drink from his bottle triangularly.
Yesterday ,when the park grass in dew
Tingled underfoot ,by the green bench
I saw a black shirt run as if chasing fear.
I am wondering if it has since caught it.
My images worked better with the night
When men walked about as visual files
Captured in the park's tender sunlight .

Hindsight

nisheedhi — Wed, 22 Feb 2012 01:18:46 +0000

And then when we had finally returned we found
A new dispensation , new clouds in shreds floated
And a soft breeze was blowing on the fallen leaves.
Our eyes having failed ,our mind froze in its tracks.

As we were going ,the sea was calm, lightly blown
With not a single rocking boat seen on the far-line
As if nothing needed to be more perfect at the time.
A lone crow sat on a statue ,watching the city-line.

Now all our stories have totally altered in our recall.
We should not have looked back from the high seas.
Our return should have left its hind quarters there.

Mere fragment

nisheedhi — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 23:51:23 +0000

Waking up in the morning we catch a mere fragment
From a whole, clinging to tatters, to threads come off
As we had dreamed it in the night, when their whole
Came to be known, in the distinct sky of those trees
That sway from their inside to their outside of the air.

Our dreams are rags from a cloth, their wholes lost
In a hopeless struggle against the wind of the trees.
Our trees are fragments of a sky, torn from its wind.
Our dreams are just trees from their inside to the sky.

Red eye

nisheedhi — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 04:49:32 +0000

Having already got a red eye I now have a yellow stomach
Where there is an overflowing milk ocean for churning
A churning it does like a professional mountain churner
In the ocean with a snake-rope embracing it for churning.

On the night of Shiva there will come out from churning
A blue poison only Shiva can swallow from the Himalayas.
We pour water on his phallic head here to cool him down
From the poison fumes he had frozen in his blue throat.

I have a red eye, besides an era of trembling in its drums
A vertigo of the mind, its thought aflutter like rose petals
That have come off of old age on my balcony,in blue light.
My beauty shall pass like the cremation ghat of Varanasi
Where a sunrise beauty is swallowed by flames of death.

My eyes have turned red behind glasses from keeping awake
For Shiva who may yet open a third eye from a middle brow
When he will dance destruction on the banks of a holy river
Until pearl-like tears drop from his eyes full of death-smoke
And cool the fiery night with a fragrance of primordial love.

(According to Hindu mythology Shiva drank poison emerging from the churning of the milk ocean and saved the cosmos from destruction. This night of Shiva we keep vigil for Shiva's recovery from the harmful effects of the poison)

still life

nisheedhi — Sat, 18 Feb 2012 23:31:01 +0000

thinking about men and materials
an image comes of a new red rose
turning blue in the light of the zero
night bulb flicked in a raw morning.
I add the hum of the computer fan
and the crisp new air biting into skin
just beside a window of opportunity.

still life has accumulated in the ears
some drums vibrate, some in holes
with wind passing in them as sound,
a vertigo of the ears, a dizzy thought.
a world passes through glassy opacity
of window, fingers dance on keyboard
birds notably missing in all their notes,
men noticeably missing on the bicycles.

still life goes back to a beach of sounds
when the sea pretends nightly silence
while all the time talking high in trees.
still life remembers men in their eyes
remembering moms in their stillness
as if moms are materials lying about
like wood logs waiting to turn houses
as moms turn fire in essential timber
their stillness gone with August wind.

Not used to eternity

nisheedhi — Sat, 18 Feb 2012 09:55:52 +0000

It was the word go in the ears, a pulsating
Drum, with variable sounds and thoughts,
Inability to hear one's own words at volume .
A touch of vertigo , as J.L.Borges would say
When you confront the eternity of cloisters.
This vertigo is one's head when turns to side
On pillow's heights, while in sleep's depths.

Mere drum beats, from holes of dark caves,
An old man becoming stone deaf in an ear
That hangs its boots, or mind turns upwards?
Or standing on tenth floor balcony on level
With the swirling eagle you look down below
And become dazed by a dizzying eternity
As blood flows up against endless gravity?
A touch of vertigo , as J.L.Borges would say
When not used to a breath-taking eternity.

Dying early

nisheedhi — Fri, 17 Feb 2012 23:08:18 +0000

We do not dispute a thinly veiled existence ,
His dying at early age , a tongue sticking out
After a previous night's stars of many finger
Pointings towards a sky-dome of ancient stars
By a little finger spanning millennia of space
Light years of endless time as vacant space
Measured out in parcels of tiny square feet
Like the little boy-god under a palm umbrella
Whose smiling feet stretched to the infinity
On a softly egotistical underworld king-head.

He had lived here on loosely strung nights.
Who are we that will some day cease to be,
To assert his existence under the flickering
Stars he had pinpointed next to his own wall
And who are we to pity him for an early death
With some blue years yet left to his balance?
We do not even know if the gods loved him.

Sonnet

nisheedhi — Fri, 17 Feb 2012 03:13:37 +0000

A stanza with all things small ,a bird's cry
For comma, machine whir for a full stop
Tears on girl's cheeks of crying child, a sigh
Machine whir drowned in street noise, a drop.

Rice cooker hisses sessions in colons
Girl's cold flows in shiny tears as pearl beads,
Summer brings its lucky water melons;
Melons open red laughter in black seeds.

The sonnet is more sentence than a song
No imagery, no poetry stuff , just rhyme
And no reason, no feeling, it is wrong
Iambs of pentameter are dozen a dime.

Girls tears have to go, by laughing melons.
The last line is a full stop, no semi- colons.

Vertigo

nisheedhi — Thu, 16 Feb 2012 01:59:33 +0000

In the midnight there was a brief hiatus
Between sleep and waking up to poetry
But we had to wait for the morning to rise
Beyond the dead tree, standing as if alive
Where birds will come for a morning show
When they strut their own new aliveness.

In the interregnum was a breath of noise
And an old heart, laden with fearful logic
When the logic would stare in the curtains
As a dog's bark night-walks on the road
Not a rhythmic stick tapping watchman.

But head turning in a pillow posited a logic
A new fearful logic of the night ,a blank wall
A new green curtain with no street beyond it
With no glowing sky, no dead tree with birds
That pretended as if it is still alive in the sky.
Poetry had to to wait for the morning to rise.