Ode to residencies

With every storm,

every tear,

this dust particle moves,

with every breeze

and every sigh,

it flies.

Maybe I was fathered by a mountain

maybe my mother was a river

in whose bosom I rolled,

I do not know.

but I move,

sometimes of volition,

sometimes by love.

where is my journey's end,

I ask again.

In a forgotten ocean

or a heartbeat?

I cannot answer,

but sometimes

I wish I knew more

about my residences.

And my residencies.

[From the collection 'Threads', shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award, 2007]

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Fugitive

Lost, unhappy man,

go look for yourself

in a nutshell,

in the elusive fragrance of embraces that weren't,

at the doorstep of a time that slipped

between the hands of a clock

at midnight and dawn,

in the gaze that held and let go,

in a conversation that should have not taken place,

in the heat of other people's quarrels,

in the stupor of unsubstantiated claims

in the quiet ungiving of presence,

in a glass of water following touch

in the grace of the holy blend of eye with eye;

and in the melody of a blue guitar

the broken paper of a kite

on an avenue or a paddy field,

in starlight or in the in-between of a firefly's riddle,

in a weed and a petal, a bird's nest and a whistle

a pathway to the smashed mirror that is she,

and then

if kindness is longer than anger,

sad traveler,

you may,

find a way home.

[from the collection 'Threads' shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2007]

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The ways of gaze

In the alleged non-existence,
among fears and yearnings,
between melodies and verses
there is a chorus
born in the bread of giving
nurtured in a cloud
painted in the transparency of dewdrop
and longing,
a voice-ensemble
adept at silence
and silencing,
and I am sure
in this rush of element and sorrow
histories and misreadings
trapped and trapping in smile
and hesitation,
there's a you that looks my way.
So let me say
softly,
softer than the falling of stars from an eyelash,
'there is a meeting of gaze
and it is sacred'.

[from the collection 'Threads', shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2007]

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Finis

The gift of unsignatured winds

the yield of a time-squeeze

the issue of rain and landscape,

call it what you will,

but there was a moment

when a certain I I know

met a myself as familiar.

It scrambled the galaxies

reconfigured the ageless play

of doorbell and welcome

the eternal stay-go

the banishment of self from self.

And then it rained,

again.

There was, I suppose, another time-squeeze

a signatured breeze this time,

the tossing into unmapped orbits

an elemental fracture in fact.

Death, some might say.

[From the collection 'Threads,' shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2007]

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Visitations

If only it was nothing but words,

clever juxtapositions,

sound patterned on image,

space between words

speaking of other places,

vulnerable and vibrant,

and nothing else.

If only eye lied

if touch was unreal

and tears made of water

and not some substance born in heart.

But words and spaces,

silence and touch,

passing trains

and unbelievable sunsets

the quietude of moment

of clasped hands and fingertips moving

the bliss of knowing

that even the hardest embrace

can be tender

and can encapsulate softness,

these things linger

in the acid-free paper of recollection.

And though I know

that sharing is possible

only when receiving is sanctioned,

I send this,

not as lament or invitation

but a gesture that refuses to grow old

or acknowledge redundancy.

In any event,

a harmless note

made of a yesterday that says 'present'

in the irregularity of off-season flowering.

[from the collection 'Threads,' shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2007]

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A forever long song

If you are the entire spectrum

of colours seen, unseen and imagined,

let me be a single sliver

whose size does not forbid a name.

If you are a glorious reservoir,

let me be that single drop of water

that wills you to spill your transforming magic

that turns individuals into communities and hearts

and barren fields into harvests and smiles.

If you are moonlight,

let me be a fire-fly speck of light

convincing you

that the stars often walk the earth at night.

If you are the breeze that heals,

let me be a whisper of acknowledgment.

If you are a voice,

then let the voice that is me,

naturally a sad apology for articulation,

still resolve to speak its barren word.

If you are the unfolding of truth,

let me be a salience

that gives the unravelling a signature.

If you are love,

then let me be its tear drop and smile.

[From the collection 'Threads,' shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2007]

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Pirith*

There was a chanting;

not of voice

not with word

but of eye,

and glance.

Bathed in that warm illumination

I fell on my knees,

and found at the address of your feet

a residence of shade and silence

where the universe transforms

into dust particle

and a drop of rainbow;

at your feet

a million words dissolve

into one.

*Pirith: chanting of Buddhist Sutras.

[From the collection 'Threads,' shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2007]

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