Making our meanings

It was as if collected lake had to speak for day
Without orange sun blazing in its other side.

We had to make meanings from a tree by lake.
On a sidewalk men sipped tea from red kiosk.

They made personal meaning out of the time
And information in trodden dust of the road,

In bricks that piled to be built in house wall
And in the dry leaves that fell on a parked car.

Dissolution

Now as a day burns I will slowly dissolve
With the pain of light’s merger into light.

You know the merger of light in the dark
Is easy on our body and feels like a breeze

But the merger of a light in light feels like
Getting back in the claustrophobic space

From where we had emerged a long ago.
We had come here from nothing and will

Dissolve in a space of nothing from here.
Wonder if the dissolution lightens a soul.

Outside of an inside

Right now, we see a dove on a parapet.
There are no almond trees skirting wall

With shadows hitting crows in almonds
The crow coming to peck bread crumbs.

That was the outside to our inside then.
New inside has no outside of sea vapor

Nor dolphin’s nose of a mountain rising
In the outside of the sea’s ruffled inside.

Here, there are broken rocks in outside,
Their bodies partly mutilated for homes.

Homes have an inside made with rocks.
They have their own outsides under sky.

Deceased years

He lived between 1821 to 1867,
Those nights hang on parapet

As deceased years in balcony
Smelling detergent in a wash.

So much a sun has dried them
With heartbreaks in a vapour.

It was a deceased’s reflection
A body calling itself Charles.

Recall bodies named, in years
Their washed out heartbreaks,

Bodies named, then cancelled,
Hanging as deceased history.

Waving at presumption

A tree may be there or not there.
There is some tree with its wind.

We now balance wind’s absence
By gentle rustle in another tree .

A tree may be there or may not.
It always waves at presumption.

Pointless irony

As carcasses kept mouths still open
At the beauty and roundness of sky,

Remember warm hands of the clock
Ticking in hall along late hum of sea

The irony seemed somewhat ebbed
Far away on mossy rocks of the sea,

What seemed pointless, at the time
Since that was matter for the crows.

Lack of body

You now get used to a body
In slow state of a dissolving

Like the image of your mom
Now slowly dissolves in tree

And a tree dissolves in city
As City is driver’s WhatsApp.

City is a God image in space.
So get used to lack of body.

On Shiva’s night

Think and write “pigeon” on white sky-
A white pigeon among four grey ones.

A real pigeon lies but dead in balcony.
Near washing machine is space to die.

Another lies but dead by a super store,
Another pigeon dead in another space

But in time shared with all others dead
To enter a death land on this Shiva day.

A poet is called upon to dispose death.
He scoops up bird death in dust scoop

On day that Shiva ingests blue poison.
He drops it in the dark womb of chute.

Guest book

He has rich Himalayan fur against winter cold.
He writes his drowsy poetry full of questions

Asks nothing and leaves handwritten remarks
in the guest book that nobody has ever noted.

His questions are better left to one’s after life.
They are wholly incongruent, official remarks.

(After reading Questions Are Remarks , a poem by Wallace Stevens)

Foresight

Ancestors saw in clear foresight
That horseshoe left behind luck

An iron to enrich a growing soil
And poop smells rich in the iron.

Horses could not have foresight.
They had blinkers on all the time.