There were marigolds everywhere for being strung on the doorway. Heaps of them were lying on the roadside waiting for buyers. Some were long snakes of garlands.
Do not fire crackers this festival. They are harmful to the environment,said a leaflet brought out by a schoolgirl.
We had hung a line of serial lights on the balcony and a marigold garland on our doorway This time round we would have more light than sound.
At the vaulting dome, waves refused to travel unless on a few pieces of silver and a name.The flying metal bird will take two full hours. Angels in turquoise will feed appetites.
There is fear lurking in our minds behind bravado. We try to shut out noises of after-death and failure .We blame ourselves for all our stupid failures as though they really mattered to us and the dead.
We then read patterns in the grey whys of decay. As if the whole thing is a science of death and we have 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.
My spectacles are on a corner table where lay some fine muslins and stitched textiles woven in delicate patterns. Their craftsmen lived in mud-houses and their stiching eyes failed ,their stomachs rumbling beneath those yarns.
A certain woman here is selling knickknacks on the Kankariya lakefront dying of plastics ,the rim of the lake framed in orange dusk. Her eye-contact touched a fellow-seller, an old man in a monkey cap, nearby, who is weighing people for small money.
A young boy red in shirt persuasively offers to clean the wax off accumulated years. All the while, women and children in color eat snacks distracted by beauty- lake.
Here I try to make poetry of broken images fine poetry and fine photography as well. My spectacles are on the corner table .The old man is in his monkey cap, nearby.His eye-contact touches the old woman .In the end, he makes the photographer’s story.
On the rocks were silhouettes of two vultures . They may be waiting for the body to turn carrion. We hear the poet’s sister went to the nature camp as desired by her nature loving mom and returned with a deep and abiding knowledge of taxidermy.
Meanwhile the sun is set up in the sky and the flies go about their business .
In the morning poem, the wild geese went about their business with the sun in his sky. In the family of things, here, we have a gutter leaking like bodies turning carrion while the vultures wait it out on the rocks .
Currently we are busy with the dead
In fine art and science of taxidermy,
We hate to see gutter bodies leaking.
We let them dry on a roof in the sun.
Meanwhile maggots are celebrating,
The wild geese doing their business.
This morning I chanced upon daffodils as a wandering lonely cloud, in Wordsworth’s own emotion recollected on poet’s couch.
Byron would call the daffodils poem puerile. Dancing daffodils may be puerile imagery but when there is wind there is wave. Images occur in waves, one after the other. Puerile is childish but it is more toward childlike, a simple joy. A child is father of man.
Here in the barbers shop, talking across continents on whatasup,I told my son I was under a barber’s shroud. There were no daffodils on an old head. But rest assured they waved in it.
The barber asked everything? I said yes,everything.
The summer is already high up in the sky. I hide my sun behind the tree.
Tree eminently rhymes with John Donne’s flea, a tiny subject of the lover’s contemplation. The subject is not physical about the lover whose unconsenting blood mingles with his in a flea. Just a little and beyond the physical.
The flea is a conjugal bed , a sacred cloister for union of two souls. The bodies do not figure anywhere except for the blood they supply.
You entreat not to kill three in a flea
It is sacred room this tiny flea’s body
To consummate union , you and she.
It is not a sinful union inside the flea
A maiden’s loss is negligible in body,
Metaphysical may however be silly.
My dog, the one who had followed my pantleg some days ago is not seen today. It must be busy with its fleas.
Look the van is on the fringe of the river where waters and bridge and sand meet ,taking its ceremonial annual bath probably. Its driver is sleeping on steering wheel. We wonder what the van is thinking in its bath as we trudge up to it in sandy footsteps.
A man is passing by, our own man, to touch the waters in reverence, for his purification. He comes from hills holding a stomach In good care under our city doctor’s scalpel .
It seems the van is not actually thinking in its bath but only synchronizing its sleep with driver’s. This our man is walking up with his glass eye blinking to catch beauty in sleeping van against a sleeping river under its bridge.
The river is moody for the rainy season but sleeps on its restraint when its ego swells less ,with no rain in the far off mountains.