We walked on the beach, in the hot afternoon sun
As the sea had reached its high point of receding
With dead fish puked in disgust from its fat belly
And a few brown mollusks, still sleeping in shells.
The sea seemed to say nothing much in metaphor.
The sands torched feet, yet opened a soft wetness
To a mile-long series of footsteps sinking as prints
Writing our history for erasing by very next wave.
But still the sea did nothing to suggest a metaphor.
A fishing boat in sight was not much of a metaphor
Nor a ship lazing in its giant afternoon drowsiness,
That stayed moored to sky with its fat deep anchor.
Here , I come face to face with my God
That comes to my mind, as a mere word.
I squat in this little marble room of gods
With yellow rice in palms, a dot on brow.
Outside the words, I cannot think of him
In a sky of vapor, floating about wearing
Flower garlands, with music on the body .
God is a word ringing in a marble corner
Of fragrant smoke,in some white flames
Smiling in ancient clothes, in long arms
Owning bows and arrows, ready for evil.
Lotuses bloom in milk ponds with ripple
From folds of snake hood protecting him
From rain and sun, from the winter cold.
He is still word from our wordy ancients.
The words are images, pictures of things
Sorrow and lightness, recalled in thought.
The words are ancient, as gods are wood
As I recall the words in this marble room,
I am filled with a warm goodness in belly.
Eighty and five springs in leaf-ends later
She still finds her life a song , a number
Not numeric, but mere music and matter.
She can hear crickets’ music in lumber
Frog-lets croaking in night’s rain-puddle.
In autumn years perhaps you imagine
Her steeped in mixed aural sounds, in muddle
A vague spectacle of death in a life’s din.
In such music one hears yellow leaves crunch
As if they are the dress one wears for lunch.
The cops like to occupy their minds.
Like the cold that is now occupying
My body, a mind ,my throaty words
In morning under nose of streaming
Ideas and words , as in steady hum
Of casuarinas overlooking the sea,
As the wind passes in their needles.
We believe cops are afraid of ideas.
They flood the senses, mute sounds.
Lift bodies from emptiness into van.
They have their emptiness in a sky.
They have to occupy a space below.
The cops are afraid of bodys’ mind
They want to evict idea from mind
And re-occupy park space and tents
They want to occupy emptied minds.
Her dolls are cute and lively but fragile
They are made of crystal glass and clay.
Her house is decked with plastic flowers
And smile made of society’s approbation
And legal scrutiny of documents ,in case.
You are twittering skylark, says husband
Lovingly, in strict legal terms of husbands
Twittering skylarks find the life such lark
Forging signature for love’s compulsions
Never looked such a bad thing for love.
Twittering larks know only love, no paper.
What do husbands want but glass dolls
In a house decorated for parties of honor?
But wives are no dolls for safe keeping.
When doors are shut their slam is heard
Through the continent, across the oceans.
(Reading a play A Doll’s House by Henrik Ibsen)
The kettle steams high on a boil
As sun is still a boil in the west.
He hasn’t called Uncle long time.
Sorry about it, he means no hurt.
There isn’t much in his boring life.
Certainly he’ll give Uncle a ring
If anything takes place in his life.
Sun is still painful boil on the sea.
(Hearing Paul Mccartney’s SongUncle Albert/Admiral Halsey)
“If your daily life seems poor, do not blame it; blame yourself, tell yourself that you are not poet enough to call forth its riches; for to the creator there is no poverty and no poor indifferent place.” Rilke
Rilke sees my daily life as rich enough.
Be poet enough to call forth the riches.
I grow mindful of a note in note board,
As I walk beach with its morning glory,
Which is just a creeper on beach sand
Flowering this season, on a sea’s edge.
Be poet enough to ignore plastic litter
In the midst of so much morning glory.
Calling forth the riches of my daily life
Is to ignore the poverty of plastic litter.
Four years after her, we see this paper now
Written in a neat scroll, a plain white paper
Crawling withmany upward-looking words
Of knowledge and its absence , lack of form
A lack of God in form, a refutation of form
A form that existed only in words and a sea.
The wind has no form as sea takes its form
And the teacher’s , a form in white clothes,
A ghost of teacher, knowledge is an illusion.
The sea is illusion, the wind a ghost dancing
The ghost is the flatness of form felt in form.
The teacher is now a ghost riding the waves.
The disciple is loss of form changed into fire.
The paper is ant- hole crawling with words
About lack of matter in matter,about absence
And the temporariness of every single form.
Her screws loose and rusted she stands alone ,
Jabbing fingers at men in the air in a cloud
Of cement like ghosts in scaffold, wind-blown
Bearing wet cement up without be’ng loud.
Men pass the cement pans up to top crews
On bamboo stairs going up to sky dizzily
Building dreams all the way up with no screws
That,in rust and loose ,have come off easily.
Up there in head there is no need for screws
The skull plates will stay inter-locked in blank
Like a football’s seams or temple stone’s rows
Or lazing crocodile’s jaws on river bank.
Since her screws are loose she’s never in blues
Without screws she only has topmost views.
In the night I read a little, under the starlight
Gathering snippets from others on the side.
It is like gleaning the grains left on highway
After the highway’s vehicles pass upon them
All through the day,untill the sun would sink
When the farmer could collect them in bags
With his twirled mustache on an orange fire.
I flit from page to page, reading the first line.
My story is made quick with inscrutable logic
That is close to reality, to the nature of things
They make beginnings and I supply the story.
All stories are same, the way they draw out
From a cave, through the wooded passages
To the depths of trees, where the drums beat
To reach crescendo and fire burns the night
As the stars disappear slowly in the grey sky
Making way for new story, a new beginning,
Until the stories will disappear with the teller.