Inside the midnight’s dark silence,
Poem after poem lies hid in depth,
While a sea rolls , wave after wave
And the words appear and vanish
Words that make sounds of waves
Breaking on the dark night’s shore.
Brain goes wider than blue of sea,
Poem after poem , blue after blue,
Each containing the other’s words,
Light and soundless, as in vacancy.
The syllables ring hollow like sky
And poems weightless on a mind.
(Trying to understand Emily Dickinson’s poem The Brain Is Wider Than the Sky)
The cradle is mom’s garment
Cascading down from a roof.
It sways like fibrous bird nest
We see in some wayside tree.
Mom’s song touches the baby
Like spring breeze in the field.
Mom’s hand rocks the cradle
To reach it to the world’s end
And return to breeze’s origin
Where begin all mom’s songs.
The baby is sleeping in her eyes
With baby dreams inside them.
At times ,she laughs her dreams,
From dreamy air in her stomach.
Outside her stomach we all are
Dreaming beings from an earth
From whence we had all sprung.
Baby laughs from excess dream..
Her flatulence, she has to expel
By a gurgle ,a ripple of laughter.
I have left behind old man walking,
A fisherman tugging at fish in sea
A fat man puffing chest to rhythm.
I have left behind a turtle’s carcass.
Crows may be through their meal.
I have left so many of them behind
After night went leaving the crows
To finish its dark deeds by the day.
A bearded one builds his bridges
Over the rivers of understanding.
As non-bearded ones feels body
Quiver with laughter, bridges fail,
Fall as a smoky rubble on waters,
A river smoking in a bridge’s fall.
Water smokes to bridges failing,
To a bridge falling falling falling.
I have not seen so many undone
So many falling in smoky rubble.
You drink water and eat samosa
And you be a triangular samosa.
Let samosa become you in flesh.
Let water be your understanding.
Build bridges in a blood on flesh,
To dissolve in an understanding.
(After watching some videos of Sadguru answering questions on understanding life)
You live by the sea garden
And the gardener missing,
Yet gutter’s flowers bloom.
You dance by a sea garden
Bursting in its sultry space,
In river of exquisite sweat.
We get news from poems.
You are the poet of decay.
A sea bursts your flowers.
Read it out as you bum along.
Better say it from happening,
Think of vicarious possibilities.
Gray- tick them , one by one,
To discover their ashen faces.
Yet there is no surprising life
You can say a nothing off ash.
All things burn or are buried,
After time burns for all of us
And leaves ash on foreheads.
Read it out as we burn along.
Say nothing from happening.
(reading John Ashbery’s poem Saying It To keep It From Happening)
Woman dances as in a mime
As the many-armed goddess
In her masks of divine purity
And a Goddess’ stories go on.
All this while, the sweaty sea
Hears calm and spell-bound.
It is woman’s body in trance,
Jabbing fingers at a sea’s air
Breaking the myths of world,
In pieces of lived out stories.
They are a humanity’s songs
Sung to form and symmetry
Through glimpses of myths,
Beyond the borders of time.
It is like it is an end of the word.
Behind the word was an infinity.
An earthworm came out to rain
And disappeared after the rains
Just like velvety insects that felt
Like fresh rain on child’s finger.
Even worm cannot turn for bird.
Birds are too late after the rains.
The way name sounded on lips
It was abrupt and earth-wormy.
There were other animals ,birds
And other worms below earth
And sea that circumambulated
An earth with the worms below
And the earth’s worms crawled
To safety of breathless infinity.
(reading a poem Earthworm by Louise Gluck)
‘Having always lived in fear of being surprised by the worst, I have tried in every circumstance to get a head start, flinging myself into misfortune long before it occurred.’
You surprise fate to be one up,
By flinging yourself on mishap.
So think of misfortunes in bag
And rummage at finger’s edge
Wiggling like eels to suck blood
You hardly realize till blood pours
In a smooth wave- like effluvium
Toppling you in ten seconds flat.
You cannot not envisage all type
Individually in the messy tangle.
Being one up is nothing to dead.
They cannot make a celebration.
Nothing is there to surprise fate,
Once you are dead and smarting
Nor can fate spring any surprise
On smart ones dead and staring.