Notes for an ancient love song

Windows

Light, leaves and lives

those we’ve lived,

you and I

in other calendars

that had no place 

for each other;

they blur in this window

that have become our world

unattended by splendour 

or celebration,

our poverties soothe

for the little we have

with love expand

just enough 

for breath and heartbeat

a song, a verse

and play of the heart’s

inconsolable fingertips 

Scorched skin caressing

Wind-burn ages skin

but ours were scorched 

in concerted furies

not of our making

beyond repair

until this

a new balm of love 

a gentle-intense mix

made for the gods

that came from nowhere

and therefore everywhere,

so we cannot ever stop

caressing 

Tears without reason

From heart-trees
resin drawn from cut and sun
breath on a waiting window pain
escapees from grass blade --
they tell me
I've lost myself
in the language of this world
gone from myself
and arrived
at a temple long abandoned
for lack of faith
and here I recline
to live out my hours
those rusted time-slivers
cleaned of hurt-residue
showered with grace.

‘How is the poet doing?’

THE poet?

That can’t be me,

for there are those who know word

and I know most about the wordless;

but if you must know

I wait by a river 

on certain evenings

waiting for dawns

anticipate colors

that must arrive as melody

if at all

breathe in perfumes

I wish came as caress,

but I can’t complain

for the swirl of things

always remnant leaves behind

victuals for a vagrant

good enough.

Arrival

It’s quiet here

students stroll to book and word

and premises that have seen and lost

nod in ancient acknowledgment 

you will come now, I am convinced

It’s not as quiet in a coffee shop,

where conversations merge

music moves 

and regular and random people

come and go,

you will come, I am convinced

Street corners are loud

the hard rock music 

stamps out thought

but heart out-beats it all

you will come, I am convinced

Nights are for owls

and the insomnia-afflicted

dream-time is for later, if at all

the day goes to bed

but I do not,

you will come, I know this.

What else can you say?

Well, say anything you like

say ‘stay awhile’

and i will tell you

‘I’m already resident for life’;

say ‘fly!’

and i will tell you

‘haven’t you seen the clouds

breaking into pieces

and into raindrops

on your window?’;

say something strange

like ‘chamomile’

and I will say

‘it stays on lips

and stains the heart

with unrepeatable conversations’

say ‘get lost’

and i will say

‘that’s my home,

didn’t you know?’

Kites and butterflies

(seriously)

Kites are light

and lighter still

are butterflies

they are for flight

and delight

not for serious reflection, no

they should not make

for philosophical comment

or add gravity 

to love’s somber moments, no

they must take lovers

higher and higher

toss them into untrackable orbits

where among constellations unnamed

they can do what lovers do best

weep for being granted

a moment

laugh at the ridiculous world  

that sanctions all

but love. 

Kites and butterflies

(lightly)

The one soars high

and the other flits;

the one is wind-dependent

the other has wings;

a master-touch 

can make the one weave and rise

and the other is touch-me-not;

I like to talk of kites and butterflies

and other things of flight

for they delight 

in their distance 

while proximity makes one nothing

and the other

can crush.


Wordless

There was a time
when they came easy,
but words came slow
and slower still
not because hearts ran out
of love-ink
but unnamed tyrannies
shut the valves,
but in impoverished times
heartbeat is word enough
and memory a note book
that will not burn;
we write even when we don't
and read splendid stories
on pages decreed to remain blank.

Ode to Fingers

they were made for keyboards

but i didn't know that

not for years;

back in the day

i thought it was for eating

for transfer ink from pen to paper

holding tangible things

and to clutch at straws;

then I was convinced

that the mind and heart

had them too

and that's how dreams were caught

and translated;

but now

these keyboard agitators 

they seem destined

to run through hair

they can never touch.

Illusions

There is nothing original

nothing un-cut

no rough diamonds

just gatherings:

songs others have heard

places oft-visited

books re-read

leaves, grass and waterlilies  

tree lines and shade

sun drops and burns

immemorial hurts

and momentary grasps

common across continents

and centuries;

all things important 

have come to pass

all wisdom catalogued,

we just chance upon old stones

and cut old fruit

we delight as others have

weep over eternal verities

with tears thought to be virginal,

the metaphysical in cell and bone

prick the voodoo dolls 

of our sensibilities 

we dance and collapse: 

'I was the first'

or 'I will be the last'

and with such convictions 

we clothe the lie

and sometimes

with poetry

quietly dab our wounds.

Divinity of Wetness

Through monsoonal bludgeon 

free of elemental encumbrance 

an apparition glides

over broken cities

and abandoned protocol

crosses the blood-line of convention,

papyric fragility 

that can with a word

into heart-dust turn

or with a word

become flesh 

in the timeless narrative

of creation:

love is god.

Divinity of the Desert

A liquid manifestation

in the madness of the thirsty

receding at approach,

a mirage they call it,

but no, not this

not an oasis 

blued by the atmospheric play

but a word-yield

and therefore 

disappearing with word;

and oh! these strange absences 

intoxicate and feed

the insanities 

so ready to bloom the desert 

with the love-letting 

from the most human

of veins.  

Meaning

What's a hundred or more kilometers
for a thought that's gone around the world
and visited all corners in a few minutes?
What's half an hour or more in a traffic jam
for one stuck at a 'Not Welcome' sign?
What's forever for
for a moment that has passed
from her memory?
What's a soiled shirt and unkempt hair
in a body housing a despoiled heart?