The thinking man recalls ,looking at his wet feet,the total freedom he had enjoyed from all choices,as a tailed fish in mom’s original waters.
But the dark knots would quickly turn blue.The floating things were soon discarded together with the knotted rope that seemed to connect between them.
Nine months of his floating were now nine holes he had to let the wind pass through. In order to untie the knot he had to cut off the rope once and for all.
This here picture I have produced in a visual of an early morning light when a pain needed balm on the back of nerve-ends tautness of the previous night and editing blues of much saturation.
You and I were trying to edit detail ,an emotion that cut thinking at its back. Morning needlessly brought poetry. Poetry once produced cannot be edited because it is there in your front lobe.
But I cannot seem to edit all that detail from this night of life when it occurred. I cannot edit the colour of my dreams nor change the depth of field in them. I want to know who was editing all this before a morning broke off night’s vision.
We have no balance left to read poems into the train’s deep night we made our own towards a hill God.So we go on in a brown pen note with calligraphy as in a forehead. Train would oblige not to tremble Like Nepal under a falling debris.
Our forehead obliges with script but it does not know its balance .Calligraphy is fine, not (in)scrutable .God in boulder smiles knowingly .We will check with Him up there.
In the bare foot grass walk there is solitude buzzing in the ears. The dew on the grass seeps through your feet into your being. That is when you look downwards and you see shapes.
A plastic carcass of a dog lying on the grass unburied. A rubber hemisphere of a child’s ball. A tiny red flower, its petals lying strewn around. Peanut-shells around a green bench. Peanuts like kidneys. Shells like empty spaces. Green benches with shapes of absent human bodies.
Human bodies are moving shapes. A body walks like a hillock tapering to a fine point, a dizzy height with a temple on top. Another walks like an ocean wave on a placid afternoon. A man walks like a caterpillar gathering the back portion of its body.
Bird cries are shapes too. The park bird cries a short twig-shaped wailing .The cuckoo sings like grass that comes up each time you trample upon it.
The walking track is geometrical bikini shapes. Its mosaic dances, as you walk, like girls in bikini swinging their hips in affected anger.
The fourth day after the festival of lights the snakes appear deep in their pits waiting for our milk and worship. The women pour turmeric and milk on the pits.The snakes inside the holes receive them on extended tongues and bless them with more children. The pits were built by industrious ants but their holes are now houses for snakes.
Just in case the snakes are still sleeping inside the pits , the children burst crackers with loud noise. The snakes then wake up to drink their milk.
The snakes are nice fellows who do not normally come out to harm humans. But if the husband snake has been killed by a human the wife snake will follow him to his bed and finish him off there itself. The snake wives love their husbands so much.
We do not want to take chances. That is why we feed them milk every year without fail.
We were concerned with fragments. Little clouds that hung over cities.Fluffy cloud polygons that held promises of rain because the pied crested cuckoo said so on its northern journey. We went cuckoos over our tiny streams , the waters that ran below our feet. The fragment would fill whole streams.The very waters which our machines had probed tearing the earth’s intestines. The earth had blood then in white fine powder.Our feet are still in its prints.
The fragment hung lightly over our lake, tantalizing the city. It was a shapeless polygon that changed its shape like an amoeba., a single unicellular organism with deceptive false feet.By dusk he it became a shred of gray, a blood smear in the death of the sun.
In that day’s midnight I had to weave a poem around the spider that had fallen on my body and would crawl to a silky promise of my new clothes. I would scrub the crawly thing off and would watch it crawl on floor.
But in my poem I cannot spider-weave a tale about the spider’s instant death under unknowing lunch eating feet. In a poem I cannot dwell too much on a stray spider’s micro tragedy.