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.
MeaningWhat'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?
