Live statues

Let live statues stare beyond,
At friendly ships in high seas.

Let stone hands point future,
With a past petrified in them.

And join a music of the trees
Against a sea’s midnight hum

Let trees hasten  future wind
And statues turn future trees.

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Repetitions

Our grief is not flora in dust
But plastic that is immortal

Like a polythene bag rustles
To morning breeze, for ever

On the wayside acacia bush.
In private grief we replicate

Like who ever someone said,
You too Brutus off the stage.

We turn fractals self-similar
And multiplying in our cells

We are plastic bags to wind.
We are  self-serving similar

Endless repetitions of history
In fractals like branching tree.

 

Not understanding

While the poet looks at death
In face ,through music, where
Not understanding is exquisite.

It is the ununderstanding Raga
What makes breathless to God
As He climbs down empty sky

Expanding breathlessly his life
To infinity of not understanding,
And suspends a need to do so.

(Reading a passage from Wendy Lesser’s book Room for Doubt regarding the power of music to grant relief from grief)

The same stone

Yesterday’s Golconda was a rhizome
That would make new green verse,

From lines lost in transient memory.
Shepherd’s mountain hosted ghosts

On matchstick sounds over bushes.
Today is back again to dream out of.

We exorcise female ghosts from it.
They are flesh turned stone as men.

Sleeping tombs are cold with a past.
Bodies covered in a  male darkness

And stomachs homes to male egos.
Now are in the same stone as men.

Next

We are in a hurry to know
The next, curious to know.
Our now’s ask who is next.

This woman is a light bulb
And her light is in a pocket
Showing through blouse.

Brother is a wind in trees
Gently passing old woods.
He had a next after years

Of his brother’s early next.
(His bulb had quite a light
Now softly passing trees.)

Houseman

Houseman ,we made a house
But we lost our tree in bough,

Over balcony hanging on tree,
For a view of milkman below.

However we made our house
We would lose our mountains.

We would lose sun in its trees
To empty sky , blue and bare.

( referring to A.E.Housman’s beautiful poem Give me my land of boughs in leaf…)