Context

Grandmothers are a context from our river spaces.They are our context to explain our why. And how.

Grandmothers sit by the river.They are the egg-heads whose stainless steel bowls glisten at the bottom with a hundred rupee note by us.

A grandmother who had earlier forgotten a mind has now forgotten a body. Soon we will forget her body in her ashes. Ashes are easily forgotten. Grandmothers are so easily forgotten as easy as their forgetting minds.

But their context is not ashes.It is a river that flows to give us our context.

Blooming a hopeless verse

The dark poet blooms his hopeless verse .Does one unbloom? Like unhope?  Dark poet believes one does.

Unbloom is a systematic obverse of bloom .The dark poet puts the blame for your darkness and mine on mere casualty. It is such a random thing .No human God is responsible for it.

All Gods are human and married and when their time comes they go to the forests .They fight ten-headed demons and leave their wives in the jungle for their chastity.

Unlucky for you that you can’t pin the blame on an angry God. When bad goods are delivered to you, it is a random act . Shit can hit any fan. Gods are just casual about it. They are merely human.

So we bloom our hopeless verse. In them lies no hope because we have only to unhope .

Clouds in Darjeeling

Bits of the cloud are not big enough for hills to obscure and eliminate but enough of the vapor as though they spoke white words of passion. If it rains they shall disappear in tea bushes.They are self-destructive,you see,in the hills.

They enter your bed rooms, to the fireplace but the fire got put out during the British days and there are some cinders and charred logs. But there is no danger of fire singeing their flanks.

They freely move about in the room touching cold cheeks to remind their lost youth. In the mall they spit vapor to make ghosts of men in long overcoats, their cell phones placed in ears to prevent from singing needless songs in them.

If they enter ears they turn into a buzz like bees.

Big ears

Big ears make star man feel naked to a desert wind and train sound. In glimpse of mankind’s depravity he loses nakedness to local earth when he loses his remote to stars. Local gods are just duplicate gods .Help calls land on wrong numbers.

Here we have to increase ear-size to hear a star’s light on our backs. Our ears come in standard sizes. Starlight seems glowing dimmer as desert sun is glowing warmer on our highly clothed nakedness.

(Watching a fantasy Hindi movie titled P.K.)

Belong somewhere

Belong some where, a place or thought .Otherwise you stand out, all eyes on you- none with you or your music or the wind.

In the night those tiny parijat flowers actually belong to the dark neighbor of the red and yellow house with a woman hanging out of the white parapet like cloth.

Their fragrance does not belong nor she. The parijat belongs to the wind and death. She of the parijat house parapet belongs to the evening and the blue sky of rain.

Beauty tokens

My birth had happened too quickly as though it needed to happen .Experience then sat on my brow. I remember the first cataclysm when it had fortuitously happened in the green sea of nothingness and there were no words.

There was all-around green fluid .My breathing was slow and rhythmic .My reaching out was tentative.Now again it is spasmodic and I want to reach out, my palms cupped in clumsy supplication.

I did not ask to be born as mere chemical experiment.

I do not want now to cease to exist merely as another cosmic event leaving a trail of fluorescent words.

Tell me quickly what I shall do with the luminous astral pieces I have been garnering all these days.

Poetry breathes before all things turn ice

Seventeen and clerk ,on work to support a sister who had embraced her electricity. He is the one whose elbow gently nudges now to a park bench for old men’s sitting, A nephew lightly less old, kid at his elbow.

Now eighty and two uncle stares at night as nephew stares lightly at his own night. (Take care from falling and nightly bumps like your sister had before she hit the ice) .Sister was mother to this slightly old man and awaiting his ice to hit , nice and cold,nephew and breathing, in a jab at poems. Poetry breathes before nephew turns ice, like all things breath before they turn ice.

The afternoon nap

The afternoon sun was blue and bright but the sky had bales of white cotton clouds stacked one upon the other.The eyes were heavy with sleep amid intermittent sounds of women’s laughter from the street and metallic crow-caws.

In our childhood nap the eyes were heavy with sleep amid rhythmic sounds of pounding of rice and metallic crow-caws.The women who were then pounding rice are now just laughing.

The geisha had eyes like rain. The Chairman liked them much.Then there was laughter in the eyes that looked the color of rain.But then they were just memoirs of a geisha.Just memoirs.

A girl sold into slavery becomes a geisha out of own volition. Being a geisha is being an artist.Thank god she is just an artist.Thank god,that makes me feel less uncomfortable just under the ribs.

When the women were pounding the rice ,my heart-beats kept rhythm with the pounding pestle.My God ,it was pretty uncomfortable just under the ribs.Mercifully the women are now laughing in the street.And the pretty geisha is not forced to become one.She is an artist like any other artist.

A moment in light

An old man’s sarcasm grows by the hour as morning grows to day .There is face that reflected sarcasm growing by the hour- growing mismatch between the age of the face and of the head thereon.

A woman waves her hands ,in the door-frame, at the hole of a shadow. Another woman, in the light-hole of a balcony, weaves pigtails out of girl.

A yellow school bus turns violent on its horn, as a woman crosses the road.

A bird and a girl

What came flying in was bird before logged in . I logged in as a bird as I forgot I was man.  Bird sound had brought a morning sweet straight from the night of its restless sleep. I have to make this fly to five lines poem. The sixth awaits with a tale of bird wound.

But let me not think about wounded wings of just one pigeon the girl had brought in fitting quietly into girl fist space like nest. Rather girl fitted in the pigeon’s girl space .Girl and pigeon fitted into my fistful of flesh where birds and girls fly unhindered.