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.
With good part of the moon eaten by a shadow of our earth mother, just now we espy in the east of sky stretchmarks like we find at night on our mother’s child soft tummy .
Now we see him back all of a piece grinning behind a waving coconut.
Back home our pony-tailed girls hopscotched four chalk squares. God, how pony tails ding-donged! May(a) I imagine you one of them. I wait for dusk to hide your black. Odd to see a black face in browns.
Now old girls play ,bald and ribald. Like you they feel they have won. The others think they have ,poor things.
(remembering Maya Angela’s poem Harlem Hopscotch)
What caused such a big tumult between you and vague other ,near the school’s rickety steps that it outlived you and other like museum in city’s history?
The only thing clear is tumult. All else about the faces is blur.
During the day the insects keep coming in from the sun. In the evening they come from the earth, fully donning their silken wings. Their cousins are our dear old mosquitoes sleeping on the trees in the day.They are waiting for the night to open in our silky mosquito nets with tiny holes like stars. When we sleep in our mosquito nets we live under a vast promontory of white cloth . A lone mosquito enters in between stars and sings its song near our eyes as we close our eyes.
Frankly we do not like mosquito songs. We prefer our own songs in the buzz of our mind. By the little songbirds in our skulls that keep fluttering their wings to drink nectar from our medulla .Our medulla is a deep red hibiscus flower meant for worship and prefers its own stock of buzz-songs . When the songbirds flutter their wings in the mid-air their wings sing a wind-song about the therapeutic effects of nectar .That is how it helps them stay afloat for long periods.
Tengo got down at the rail station of a town of cats. There was something secretive about the way the cats went about in the town, thanks to the rubber pads they had in their paws. Like them Tengo’s father was a cat with rubber feet and he made no noise when Tengo’s mother allowed her lover to suck her breasts. A brief moment that was the only picture of his mother in Tengo’s mind. Was that sucker his biological father?
When asked Tengo’s father said somebody had to fill the vacuum. When she would go away with the lover, he had to embrace the vacuum.
Vacuums are created by suction. And filled by creating new vacuums. Tengo has to embrace his own vacuum created after the truth of his birth is realized.
( Reading Haruki Murakami’s short story entitled “Town of Cats” )
A word that comes defines expectancy -an idea in underbrush, expectantly hid in its growth like plastic shining in color ,a plastic waiting to be picked up by kid.This plastic color came by itself into bush and underbrush, mere word under brush like a bird sitting on bush expecting to fly its body waiting to fly, an act of crouching.
Now there is a kid expected to pick up expecting plastic colors from underbrush.Plastic colors are colors of our expecting. Colorless plastic are not expected at all.
Expecting stops as plastic gets picked up. Kid has gone, bird has crouched and gone.In comes train raising expectancy in words.Its bird goes up and down on phone wires .Its lights are painting shadows on bushes.Bushes are expecting in crickets creaking but night is expecting things,not just trains.
Night is expecting other nights, other days.
In the grass walk I trampled on my laughing friends but they got up laughing all the time. The trees were friends whom I failed to accost but then I would walk between two trees every time in my “8” walk and would some times gently tap on their barks in a most friendly touching manner. I did not fail to notice the first laburnums of this season on my tree. Back in Bhopal I had made a poor joke of two doggies lying under the tree without noticing new laburnums of the season ( a nice photograph it was!). They were here alright into a small bunch against the blue of the sky.
Here luckily I have noticed them. The bare armed man on the green bench would make nostril noises but not notice them. Or may be ,he did when he raised his arms and had done with the nostrils.
In my *8* walk, I would some times pass the neem tree by ,without its being seen on this side of the wall. I did not fail today to turn up my nostrils enough each time I would pass that corner. I caught its new fragrance flaunted on its powdery flowers. The very flowers that would turn bitter-sweet fruits three months later. Among birds only parrots savor the fruit for all its bitterness with an underlying sweetness. They have a sub-text with sweet agenda for pollinating bees.
After transience and a bone filling ,in the clay-pot for swirling waters, we are now into other poems about a ten year old mango tree one does not know if still exists, waving softly in old mind’s wind .
And last of all to a swooping crow that was stealing a carbolic soap that now fails to come to eat our rice.
From transience we have arrived at other poems about transience.
Seems there are no other poems.
Now I sit on top of the foundation dangling my feet in its future space. Opposite to me there is the sun just above the brick layers of clouds. Tall sun-burnt grass is waving to the wind.
Now the sun is up sprinkling his shine on my shirt. He is now blinding my eyeglasses like fog and soon he will be all over the place.
Two youths are sitting on the boulder a little distance away . They seem to be discussing salaries. An aluminium foil from somebody’s eating is rustling like a silver leaf in nearby breeze. Broken bottles lie in the grass as relics of drunken nights.