In the king’s apocryphal story , you make the horses fly in six months or you die. You agree to make horses fly because maybe in six months horses may fly or you may die or the king may die.
A Hong Kong poem suggests the gold fish still fly , the ones we saw in the Wanchai fish tanks of twenty years ago . Because there is connect between the goldfish of then and my present existence. In twenty years gold fish may fly or the poet may die or the horses in Hong Kong race course we saw from our Happy Valley flat may fly a reverse slow motion.
The fish tanks are full with the fish we saw writhing and the water snakes have their blood poured in a glass for a potential customer . Every thing can fly back and forth. I can fly as the horses can fly and win a race for us. The sun on his seven horses can fly back to twenty years of my past and a slow motion of the world can happen between me and then.
While fish do not fly, they do fry. This evening along the shoreline I saw tens of thousands of red and dead fish. Nobody wants them in their stomachs. Who knows they may have died of chemical poisoning or an oil slick.
The crows may not be aware that the fish are not good for their stomachs. Hope the crows have strong enough gastronomy for them.
Who knows -fish may fry, if the crows try.
The recent heads would go into an elaborate teleology to decide if old heads might talk, those who were their baby sitters by day and yawning tell -talers by night.
In streets the old heads are mere aggregates. Their heads bob up or turn back as they gather the earth’s crust for thin cover on their parched faces.
The recent ones listen to uncles and aunts under dark staircases, the latter words invisible by day but at times ascending by night.
The recent heads are not all that recent. They are receding in their scalps. Their recedings are a relatively recent phenomena.
They look up at the moonshining old heads with tolerance . Old heads are useful shiners on those moonless nights, when they are hard up for moonlight.
And old heads have receded long since . They will disappear wholly on one of those moonless nights. after which the recent ones will make them climb walls.
There they will smile for ever in garlands of sandalwood shavings.
They say the other world is beautiful, all those who have been there and back. Streets are neatly cobbled and swept clean. No plastic water bottles are floating on fetid water bodies nor polyethylene wrappers rustling in the breeze nor street dogs sleeplessly barking. No one hits a bum in a snail of traffic.
But another world is more beautiful. Men went there and are not yet back. There are classical dancers on clouds, but no loud speakers on vulgar music. Clouds are not made of plastics. There are no milk sachets on a breeze. There they have no fly-ridden clinics and no morgues for men to lie dead.
Surely you can’t be lying dead twice.
A matter of clearing, a single sound ,a vast journey in space, a wedding its sound journeys to my eager ears ,a locus in a space graph of listening.
A soundless night makes it possible. Geographer’s poem is very journey, a moving away of a chunk of space or invisible space vastly stretching.
The wedding is space of a drumbeat, a clearing in a jungle of night’s silence .Some humans make wedding sounds. Sleeping dogs are making no clearing and no patrolmen stick-tap this night.
Our space enters here, in the window. Curtains are mute spectators to wind and trees carry space back and forth.
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.