The communion of the solitary

There are crowds and crowds,
some suffocate
some breathe life,
there are peopled crowds
of routine courtesy
shrilled with people and event
silent on idea and work
words that layer like so much dust
so much grime
on the window sills of the heart
and there are hosts of birds
seagulls and shells
the roaring in of a wave
and cowering withdrawal
as though anger was knuckled
on the door of a mistaken address,
there are crowds and crowds
some suffocate, some liberate
in the one there’s solitude
and in other the community of hearts
but in one or the other
the air-less will see air-less
breathe and breathe
and solitude is bent
in the intersection of the solitary.
 
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Waxed Containment

Container is for eye
the preference of color and shape
moulded for taste
and pick-me-up pulse;
lighting is for delicacy
of touch and ambience
occasion and festival
meditation too;
burning is for mind
the dwarfing of the tall
melting of the congealed
perishing of wick
unwavering flame
in windless room
flickering and snuffing out
in the timber of wind
but made for decay
for illumination
and revelation
of transient ways,
a prayer of malleability
of wax and wane
to acknowledge nothing
and seek it too,
nothing, that is.

[Inspired by the photography of Chandana Wijesinghe]

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One thing?

‘Say something!’
someone will say, some day.
‘Say one thing,’
perhaps the plea may be.

Say ‘no’

and this is why.

One this leads to another,

like mountains and streams
rivulets and dust particles
clouds and thunderstorms
love and solitude
so give a host
a legion of wrongs
in error of definition
and a heart
that will not be stopped
by muscle or bodily brief,
but erupt and erupt and erupt.

 

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Word and melody

There’s a lyric
with an ‘anon’ byline
not for ignorance
but for multiplicity of author,
written by encounter and loss
hope shredded by choice and chance
abandoned in a war zone
hung from a clothes hanger,
there’s a melody
similarly composed
wrought in temperamental blend
a wayside left-behind,
a free-float in storm
and re-scripting of absurdist theatre;
word met tune
in an impossible hour
the universe stopped
waited,
but word had forgotten name
and purpose.
Melody too.

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The ways of staying

Eyes may leave
at dawn or dusk
ungodly hours
as such conceded by chance,
feet go too
but like left-footprint
gaze remains,
like melody-echo caresses
long after the song is done.

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Rain

I’ve known you
in all your garments
I’ve touched and been touched
intoxicated and blinded
swept off highway and the guru paara
swept into nondescript huts
into bus halts
pushed against tree trunk
made to tremble
with cold and wonderment
and yet
I have never seen you
in greater finery
as in the garments of anticipation
where rain is a promise
tagged on tree, leaf, wind, cloud and bird song,
as in the garments of going-away
touched with waterless perfume
of dust and re-greening.

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Forgive

Forgive my trespasses
I am blind to maps;
forgive the love I give
for poverty forbids other giving;
forgive the word
for silence is for reading and mis-reading;
forgive the silence
when word is tongue-shackled beyond belief;
forgive the grain that I am
I cannot grow into mountain;
forgive me for giving moments
for my life-clock was wrecked
in some auspicious time
when reason was banished
and the wine of love
seized heart.

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