We have no mirror in shack.
We have no walls to hold up.
The eyes shall be my mirror,
By flowing mountain stream.
The mountain holds stream
And I look in its glassy eyes.
Mountain teases the stream,
Have you looked at yourself?
We have no mirror to stream
It is too fast and too flowing.
We have no walls to stream
To hold up a mirror to face.
We have no eyes to the face.
The glass in them is broken.
Mean while, there is no face
To see in eyes or in stream.
In absence of leaf-like words,
We may hit a city’s pot-holes
A city’s body wears for leaves.
City eats holes in its stomach.
It has eyes of holes in a skull.
City has wind hissing in them.
Crane has eyes set in chassis.
Woman falls to pot stomach.
City wears holes on its body
Death has eyes set in chassis.
At midnight we are right at the center
A medias in res adaptation of old story
A long haul of a distant tireless forest
Peopled by honey bears hiding darkly
In bushes, with the mountains sleeping
At the furthest view of seeing nothing
An opaqueness common to all dreams.
You forget you are in an opaque night
And dreaming at a black core of night.
Your creatures are shrouded in a dark
As bears that may yet descend the hills
When you are sleeping on a river bank
With sticks by side to shoo them away
If and as they descend on a sugarcane.
But at the end of stillness is sea’s hum.
A brine of vast possibility rises to moon
By aggregation of darkness in thought,
A point you are neither here nor there.
Bearded man is old songster
Who gives me a grass song.
Song grows here and there
In old men and young men
And child asks what is grass
To the blue grassy sassy sky
God’s scented handkerchief
Sassily dropped on purpose.
Grass is my self’s multitudes
Like hill woman’s grass head.
(Reading Walt Whitman’s poem Song of Myself)
We often commit Cummings type
Nuisances in poetry’s backwaters
Both in capitals and in lower case.
We are enormously small humans.
We love humanity in deep down
Finding death comfort like mom.
(reading e.e.cummings poem”humanity I love you”)
Now that you know poet had lived
And died while in a cave of trees,
That a woman had snakes in hair,
She would turn you stone to look.
A mere looking turns you a stone,
You must not go near a tamarind
That had snake tresses in nights
And is home to childhood ghosts.
The sea has an undertow
A fit of passion, at moon
When a pearl-white surf
Turns almost blue of sky.
Skin blushes for nothing,
With no errors by bones.
But it is much like a sea,
With its large undertow.
You never know the sins
Lying unpunished inside.
The intrepid dreamer wrought
Several images in continuation
The flying water and snow hills
And the fallen peach blossom
That had to move with waters.
The lights glistened forgetfully
Yesterday over fried potatoes.
It was just a whiff of thought
The white bones in a clay-pot.
Be like old poet who flies and sings
With his awkward flames of words
Beating out gold bar half wrought.
You poetize your awkward journey
While flying as the people in street
Look up at your coat tails flapping.
Be an old coat ,with insides gone,
To scare away birds to their skies
With your broken pot at the head.
(Reading Osip Mandelstam’s poem self-portrait)
Timeless stories sit like monkeys
In the middle of fast flowing river
And circular boats swirl with men.
Boats are circles of moving swirls
Just like stones that live in circles
Of the water flowing round them.
Boats are helpful monkey soldiers
Who further epic stories of kings.
Circular boats flow like old stories.