Somehow this abrupt first line
I have pulled out of a hospital,
A white one in a body incident,
Its nurse’s frightful conclusion
Leading to the tearful farewell
To a shadow of physical world
As it threatened to be shadow.
A first line need not be a body
Nor world’s shadows to speak.
The body creates own shadow
Its launchpad for future poem.
A shadow is substantive poem .
Bodies go but shadow remains.
A first line is a shadow of a last.
Merely ,a special character
To access money meaning
Part of my God,who incites
Poetry from the rocky hills.
A rice giver ,it raises prices
Like it gives well paid jobs.
This mean thing raises fear
Approaching average lives
What makes an expectancy.
Chances are train will pass
Drowning the percentages,
Means fifty -fifty possibility
Poem of prose ,black verse
An after -blank expectancy.
We beat our common stones
We jointly and severally own.
Our laundry’s washing spirits
Are at all time perked up like
Goosebumps on a temporary
Excitement, recent feel-good.
A rhythm of beat is the thing.
Detergents are free & mixed.
They smell of a fresh lemon
Taken off their trees to hang
On a sun’s drying clothesline.
We have left all the currency
To remain in the shirt pocket.
That is for their nice laundry.
We keep caring our hang-ups
We always exhibit on sleeves.
We will give them a nice beat
Once they are off dirty selves.
We look into your eyes bored
Where we often see ourselves
Entirely emptied of meanings.
We flutter our eyes in activity
Barely, asking for a meaning .
Our eyes flutter as butterflies.
Your words trigger daydreams
As in an afternoon street walk
Till they trail off to day’s edge
And we reach dead end in life.
Child of the universe you discovered
Desiderata in early hour but late like
Polonius behind a silk curtain for life.
Child of universe ,you are no more.
Borrowing dulls edge of husbandry
Of your wife with a Gucci handbag.
Child of universe, you are no more,
No less than crooked dog tail wags
Sniffing the walker’s pantlegs down
Searching for its desiderata in love.
(Following Max Ehrman’s popular poem Desiderata)
On some days, it pays to think without bones,
On arm’s crook of sleeping mom with the kid
The head that is still, bones nested in its flesh.
A pot that had held her silence is its memory,
A river of purification in boat and from behind
Head would hurl her silence in the river’s swirl ,
And return to the shore, after no looking back.
In a river that swirled ,there is no looking back.
At night, head will look up to hear her silence,
From up there in a wall ,staring down at head.
At such height ,you can see the mountains.
The secret is to hold on and not to let drift
To mountains on thorny low-slung bushes
With blue clouds on top presaging storms.
Without ankush it takes us to inner animal
Trees uprooted, mountains pulled up near
With the dusk shining from the rear flanks.
Muthu teaches to wield ankush to let it go
Where we want to go, the blue mountains,
Not where pleasure or lust or desire led us.
(The mind is a rider on an elephant. ‘My own mind used to wander
wherever pleasure or desire or lust led it, but now I have it tamed, I
guide it, as the keeper guides the wild elephant-Buddha)
All the machinery is there ,in siren’s blow
A blade, a voice to the right, some words.
The blade cuts through ice, mud and lies
Saying it is words from the night, a sleep.
It is bodies in their own words in a space
A chopper on way down , men stopping
Short, other people alive and some dead
For a hill visibility that is missing from life.
Silence is all ,the stone phallus in the hills
Snug in the cave ,a light from earth lamp
A blue and dusted god with a river in hair
And moon no longer super, high from us.
Words are his dreams, a god in snow hills,
A god submerged by the river of his wife.
At once visual and tactile, the imagery sprouts
Abrupt dunes on plain-speak, bush and sand.
It would not matter the girl was what and how
Her space notwithstanding, time in her pocket.
That is where it is ticking away, at blind curve
Like a river in eternal bind near the mountains
Curving away in bend, near the sleeping trees.
Images are real, belonging to our very spaces.
Let me write into a yellow colored paper
The mass of yellow of the eclectic sheet
For many crawling letters,coming to life
While another night moves on to decay
Spurred on by the fading cricket’s noise.
Blind poet wrote yellow before his dark
Who wants to remember the last world
As yellow world that stood out in a fog.
A fog can only be grey like a frog visible
Only by its leaps across the rain puddle.
A yellow sun that stands out in the dark
Stays in eyes like before they are closed.
Words are little frogs in this yellow sheet
Visible only by sudden jerky movements
Across long stretches accruing meaning.
A yellow sheet is temporary note taking.
