We talked of Kolkata’s garbage boys scavenging on our poverty steeped in glory ,their cheeks gone pale with knowledge amid Nobel prizes lost and not found, their brown sugar level intact in blood from their cigarettes puffed in silver rings.
This morning we have read about some Boston boys scavenging, in the forties, on mountains of putrid Western glory. Thank God we are level with the guys in the developed countries.. Now we do not carry giant size hurt egos any longer, on our drooping shoulders.
He came with a heart in body wet in eyes over other bodies that cried pain in their bones.He that went in a forest search found fingers gone ,heart beat missing over fingers in garland.Old man bent in many crooks. Man was mere body under sky.
We wear hearts on minds that beat electrocardiographs,worried sick about plumbing.
We are bodies he fretted over.
We are the ones connected on our roads and in justice courts. Our speech blares like ambulances of reverse alphabets on the rear view.
Cops in over sized knickers pay their obeisances to us under their headless caps. Hangers-on are ready with outstretched palms to gather dried flowers from our lips.
Here in this vast winter land we are connected to many faceless humans by dreams ,hardly the men and women walking their barefoot for us ,an extra mile, an extra slogan.
Now we try these blue birds drop like them in 140 chars .Our bird tweets will re-tweet to come back from the walls we have erected everywhere in the silence of your nights.
In between we buy a Tablet. At the plaza where glitz spills in the hall and the corridors of efficient silence.
The tablets abound in stories. Stories of a prude Helmer and his wife Nora ,trying to echo feminist cries in the nineteenth century. Stories of giant insects one finds oneself transformed into. A metamorphosis.
The cold weighs you down. In the head, a brandy might help lighten. But with that kind of smell one feels like a watchman looking for sorrow-escapes in the basement. Heck, this is an annual affair. The cold is a frivolous game played in the head. Nothing serious.
The poet is sad because the world is sad, this business of being. Acknowledging it is sad. By the lakeside of a fish. Into the rarefied air of a summer morning.The woman down there hurls abuses at sadness, calls it a son-of-a-bitch. He didn’t do anything .Just stood on a stool mending the fuse wire.He stood there ,never came down while we remained in the dark. We did whatever we could with our static electricity. We tried to light our bulbs on our bodies. Our cars gave a jolt when you touched them. You may kiss them lovingly but do not touch their smooth surfaces. Electricity made you sad .
The universe is sad, a poem of sadness that gets rejected by indie publishers. Indie publishers pursue dead mules , live camels. The camels laugh at you from the height of their funny necks. When the camels married mules, the camels danced while the mules sang. The camels praised the mule-song.The mules praised the camel-dance. They were sad together.
The poet had been trembling even in infancy. The only rest is to acknowledge and absorb the sadness of being.
The grass was soft, silky but not wet. Today there is only light ,no dew. Yesterday’s little paper planes the kids had made out of literacy pamphlets have flown or their debris has already been cleared after yesterday’s crashes.
Where the tree began a new sound was born of a night cricket that forgot it was morning.In my future rounds it would cry out, in a staccato rhythm, as I would be approaching the tree every time in my walking rounds. The sounds would come from an absence of cricket. The cricket was but an illusion. What you cannot see cannot be true. But the sound of a cricket is true like the light that falls on the grass and makes the grass real.
A dream is an image that cannot be true.It is pure representation of a real thing, not the real thing itself. But a shadow is as real as the real thing. A halo is not representation, nor a silhouette a copy. These are real things.
The bamboo is smooth and round to the fingers. In the next round of walk ,when I return it would be smooth, round and cool. The sitting stone is boulder that forgot to become hill. It is brown and wet with hose water. The sitting stone rises from the grass. It does not sit in the grass. Only I sit on it.
My home is the tree where the cricket cries. Actually it is the place where I keep my sandals and come back to it after the grass walk. Some times I keep my sandals behind the green bench when the bare armed man is not making nostril noises there.
I pat my trees in each round in appreciation of their standing. I smell their little new flowers and praise their fragrance. Now I appreciate the cricket’s absence too.
At the vaulting dome the waves refused to travel unless on a few pieces of silver and a name. The flying metal bird will take two full hours .In the meantime the angels in turquoise will feed our appetites.There is fear lurking in our minds behind bravado.
We try to shut out noises of after-death failure.We blame ourselves for failures as though they really mattered to us and the dead. We read patterns in the grey whys of decay. As if the whole thing is a science of death and we have nearly mastered the art of dying, of succumbing to the need to maintain transience.
We smugly wear the polyester film of transience about us .We read poetry in the trivial tragedies of their tatters.