punctuation from sentence
heart from life
and toss it out
for wind and time to craft.
And if she reads me somehow
what then of theory
of word and music,
grammar rules and such?
[From the collection 'Some texts are made of leaves']
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Monday, 7 May 2012
Love-notes
I take word away from language
punctuation from sentence
heart from life
and toss it out
for wind and time to craft.
And if she reads me somehow
what then of theory
of word and music,
grammar rules and such?
[From the collection 'Some texts are made of leaves']
LEAVE A COMMENT
punctuation from sentence
heart from life
and toss it out
for wind and time to craft.
And if she reads me somehow
what then of theory
of word and music,
grammar rules and such?
[From the collection 'Some texts are made of leaves']
LEAVE A COMMENT
Sunday, 6 May 2012
Itipiso Bhagava Arahang...
All
things are transient
and
thus the Enlightened One
journeyed
through sansara
lifetime
to lifetime
slaying
the kleshas
one
by one
spoke
the word
showed
path
was
born
attained
Enlightenment
and
reposed
in
the incomparable
parinirvana
manchaka
and
we resolve
in
our impurities
to
purify
to
reflect
to
affirm righteousness
as
embedded in word
and
example,
trip
on our frailties
stray
again and again
but
return
to
a singular avenue
eminently
recognizable
by
fragrance of text
and
the colours of emancipation
striking
and soft
in
contrasts that blend
to
everything and nothing.
Saturday, 5 May 2012
Traditional homeland
What
is the traditional homeland of love,
that born-free, living-free place
where gaze, compassionate or otherwise,
does not cause blush,
where the parameters of propriety
are meaningless,
where the 'you' and 'I'
can collapse into 'us',
where there is no
looking-over-the-shoulder,
no what-ifs to inhibit lip,
stop caress
or freeze melting?
What is the name
of that world
where love
is an all-country visa
where there are no check-points
to arrest heartbeat
no physician willing to treat
the incurable sigh?
Is there an in-our-arms moment
outside of memory and longing,
being and becoming?
And are such things worth attention
today, now or ever
with intersection having bled into convergence?
where gaze, compassionate or otherwise,
does not cause blush,
where the parameters of propriety
are meaningless,
where the 'you' and 'I'
can collapse into 'us',
where there is no
looking-over-the-shoulder,
no what-ifs to inhibit lip,
stop caress
or freeze melting?
What is the name
of that world
where love
is an all-country visa
where there are no check-points
to arrest heartbeat
no physician willing to treat
the incurable sigh?
Is there an in-our-arms moment
outside of memory and longing,
being and becoming?
And are such things worth attention
today, now or ever
with intersection having bled into convergence?
[from the collection 'Some texts are made of leaves', shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2012]
Thursday, 3 May 2012
This hour
it flies from a thousand buildings,
from houses and vehicles,
bicycles and buses,
gathering dust
and the grime of the diurnal
but fluttering nevertheless in an eternal dawn.
Morning rain
dissolves tree and city,
traffic light and the early riser
billboard and shop sign,
and city maps get smudged
in a black-river spill.
Then there is a day-start rush
school books and lunch boxes,
the ritual repeat of a timeless whine:
brush-your-teeth, I-don't-want-to,
where-are-your-shoes, I-don't-know,
where's-my-kiss, budu-saranai-chooti-doo.
The skipping of meals
the frequent tea-breaks
the anecdotal hours pass,
the daily quota of conversation
swirls around work
and dreaming.
It is all wrapped
didn't you know,
by word and memory,
image and burning,
the coolest gaze
and a voice
from yesterday and tomorrow
a voice for moment,
from moment to moment.
from houses and vehicles,
bicycles and buses,
gathering dust
and the grime of the diurnal
but fluttering nevertheless in an eternal dawn.
Morning rain
dissolves tree and city,
traffic light and the early riser
billboard and shop sign,
and city maps get smudged
in a black-river spill.
Then there is a day-start rush
school books and lunch boxes,
the ritual repeat of a timeless whine:
brush-your-teeth, I-don't-want-to,
where-are-your-shoes, I-don't-know,
where's-my-kiss, budu-saranai-chooti-doo.
The skipping of meals
the frequent tea-breaks
the anecdotal hours pass,
the daily quota of conversation
swirls around work
and dreaming.
It is all wrapped
didn't you know,
by word and memory,
image and burning,
the coolest gaze
and a voice
from yesterday and tomorrow
a voice for moment,
from moment to moment.
[from the collection 'Some texts are made of leaves,' shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2011]
Tuesday, 1 May 2012
Lining
I
like to draw lines
define spaces
not in the manner of an architect
or cartographer, no
but I like to play with heart-crayon
on mind-paper
and set out flower-flanked pathways:
the forks meant to lead astray
the hidden turn that was not taken
and the strange heartbeat keys
that brought us
from unknown beginnings
through familiar charades
stumbling through word lines
tripping over innuendo and glance
to this place of no return.
not in the manner of an architect
or cartographer, no
but I like to play with heart-crayon
on mind-paper
and set out flower-flanked pathways:
the forks meant to lead astray
the hidden turn that was not taken
and the strange heartbeat keys
that brought us
from unknown beginnings
through familiar charades
stumbling through word lines
tripping over innuendo and glance
to this place of no return.
[From the collection 'Some texts are made of leaves', shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2011]
Monday, 30 April 2012
Today is May Day
Yes,
you are damn right it is!
May
Day falls on April 29th,
on
January 1st and December 31st
and
everyday between,
it
is the day they built the Taj Mahal
from
scratch to polish
the
pyramids and minarets
stupas
and tanks
the
nuclear reactor
and
the multi-barrel gun
stretching
from first stitch
to
after-sales service
and
disbursement of insurance
the
picking of pockets
ravaging
of heart
breaking
of bones
and
the celebration
of
labour
with
courtesy and redness
no
apology
none
given,
none
asked.
Saturday, 28 April 2012
Serendipity unveiled
This land
is every land there ever was
and ever will be,
this land
is not foreign
to foreign soil,
gaze upon it
and that’s all it takes
to obtain permanent residency
to love and hate
to own and disown
This land passes
from generation to generation
traveller to traveller
journal and revision,
it has moved from hand to hand
been chit-chatted about
civilized and vilified
and yet
again and again
through ownership and bombardment
lyrical rendering and misrepresentation
it rises
from cartography and cartographer
traveller and description
long nights
and blazing afternoons,
emerging in colour and storm
wave and wave-remnant
through mist and forgetting
rides on parallel lines
and wanders in impossible universes.
There are temples made of rock
and made of seaspray and yearning,
monuments from the past
as fresh as imagined tomorrows,
boats and carpets
lines and curves.
This land
is a beautiful woman,
an old woman’s recollection
a baby’s ripple of laughter,
a song sculpted without blueprint
plundered without mercy
lost without name
but always,
always
signatured with love.
[from the collection 'Some texts are made of leaves,' shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2011]
LEAVE A COMMENT
is every land there ever was
and ever will be,
this land
is not foreign
to foreign soil,
gaze upon it
and that’s all it takes
to obtain permanent residency
to love and hate
to own and disown
This land passes
from generation to generation
traveller to traveller
journal and revision,
it has moved from hand to hand
been chit-chatted about
civilized and vilified
and yet
again and again
through ownership and bombardment
lyrical rendering and misrepresentation
it rises
from cartography and cartographer
traveller and description
long nights
and blazing afternoons,
emerging in colour and storm
wave and wave-remnant
through mist and forgetting
rides on parallel lines
and wanders in impossible universes.
There are temples made of rock
and made of seaspray and yearning,
monuments from the past
as fresh as imagined tomorrows,
boats and carpets
lines and curves.
This land
is a beautiful woman,
an old woman’s recollection
a baby’s ripple of laughter,
a song sculpted without blueprint
plundered without mercy
lost without name
but always,
always
signatured with love.
[from the collection 'Some texts are made of leaves,' shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2011]
LEAVE A COMMENT
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