I prefer rain of the moths to stars,
Like coal particles borne by wind
Or tiny water particles swarming
A window glass, making specters
Of men against mountains of sea.
I prefer insects of coal’s particles
Exfoliating pale skin of the wall
Like flowers on dead Polish poet.
I prefer flies buzzing about death.
They are free flying like a poetry.
I prefer the “I Prefer” of freedom
Of words whizzing past like flies.
I prefer to think out possibilities
With my words buzzing like flies.
(after the poem “Possibilities” by Wislawa Szymborska )
You are now in seventy’s indoors.
In June, the night proceeds apace.
In June , a sky burns blue and hot.
Landscape lies dug up in the park.
It is now your morning of indoors .
You see no maroon leaves falling.
Park gardener gestures no leaves.
You have none indoors of pocket.
A wind is loose on string like bird,
That ties the indoors to outdoors
When a sky is indoors to balcony
Falling through glass of windows.
As the poet forgot to get up for a piss
An hour before a sea would wake up.
Are not nights when we are sleeping ?
Men’s cuss words are day’s dead fish,
Causing red anger in a hunger’s belly.
Are not days where we are cursing in?
After we are larking no more at dawn
Are not ,days after nights, upon a sea
As the waves roll on to endless time?
(After Philip Larkin’s poems ‘Days” and “Sad Steps“)
It is a string that makes wall smudgy.
It floats behind glass like bird in wind
With the sea vapor in the air and coal
That comes wafting in dust from port.
It paints morbid patch of dirt on wall.
All through night, sea lies immortally
Through morbid movements of death.
Will the night leave its morbid poem
At death of the turtle in sea stomach?
Will string relentlessly smudge wall
As death defies body, pristine in soul
And body to disappear behind glass?
Wait in the small hours till a sea
Turns blood red with the words.
They are hazy enough ,in poem.
The poem expands on the buzz
Poem words repeating as waves,
A heaven’s bells clanging in ears
Seeking God in the sonic portal.
Poem is like sound’s beginning
That grows to be an endless sea
And waves rush ,one after other.
You said, Statue! with two fingers
And he was merely flying his whir.
Now stuck pointing easy by a sea
Statue has smile stuck on its face.
It cannot take it off even in sleep.
In election days,statue can’t smile
While there is a shroud on its face
For non-statues to fly on the whir.
For the living, not yet said Statue!
One never knows when you’ll say
And a stony smile is stuck on face
And hand remains pointed to sky.
You and I are a brevity of souls,
You God staring directly at sky
By plastic tea cup ,on the beach,
Red crabs seeking God in a hole.
We seek poetry’s truth of irony.
So we look up coconuts in blue
Where shadows reach high up
And clouds seem kissing fronds.
We are come long way in irony
As plain truth of our life in sea.
Across the vast fields of waves
This is no irony but plain truth.