A water enters cold and wet dousing fires, orange in blue ,a sweet thought, a cold wind. A heat in the concrete cement granules vanishes on a parapet to night and a night crumbles darkly. A tree dies, a fruit ripens ,a flower falls its red feet up. An earth shivers down tree ,a sky falls ,the cloud breaks.
A colour flies ,a wind wavers ,an orange creeps up gently .A hill fattens, a tree is blue .A lake streaks in pure silver.
You end up with a nothing ,just a ball of fire in the east.
The train ploughs through the night,in a manner of speaking, as sleeper ploughs through a sleep in the train. Everything is a manner of speaking.
(Sleeper may be my wife in the train but that is not manner of speaking)
Poem words are best allowed to fly off from the rails where the train’s wheel ploughs the night to let off its sparks in manner of speaking, riding a night when sparks of silence fly off a sleep while the train is ploughing the night.
(Like the knife sharpener in the street as his foot ploughs through machine),
Words are sparks flying off night like from knife sharpener’s machine,sparks that do not light lonely nights but are just another manner of speaking.
Let us list things of that evening when the dusk light flooded, through the tree, this wiry man and woman .
They were winnowing for the day, sifting the wheat of gold from powdered chaff, against light wind in muscular swing of the male arm, and upturned female face, their bodies synchronised in an exquisite wheat-dance.
Happiness lay somewhere in this jumble, in this list.
A pacific storm is story of animals and man, their together on the sea, with a gust of wind in the aft, a Bengal tiger prowling ,a sailor dead, a zebra, a hyena for not laughing ,a boy on flotation to three gods for praying.
The pi has to live off the sea air, its drinking water. The pi has no life, a variable radius with center drifting away in storm to the carnivorous islands where algae throttles lives of God-seeker boys who live in concentric circles, widening circles,the last one of which they may not complete.*
The pi has to circle around his God like a falcon or like the storm around a boat ,on its flotation. It is a story’s version that makes the difference .
(After viewing the film Life of Pi. -* Reference is to Rilke’s poem Widening Circles )
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.