The man was sleeping on the grass .His face was turned towards the park wall .His head rested on the crook of his arm, his slippers some feet away .He was dreaming of sleep so he can dream some beautiful dreams.
Dreaming while still awake ,his eyelids attempted to flutter while he had some pretty dreams still left under them. He turned to the wall shutting off the world from his eyes.
There was this white park wall that stopped his world at five feet to make a single white world that left him free with his dreams. Behind his eyelids was the infinity of yet undreamed nights .
I ask that you be heard, tossed about ,dreamed of. It is your thoughts, my upset energies, and nightly turbulence. Sleep provokes night and life and darkness prevailing in us.When we wake up we are gone as night precedes dawn .It is always the other way, bottom up and spaces spread. At times we hear the police van’s shrieks, in night’s iron grill.
You be heard, tossed about and dreamed of. It is not always the stick beating the road in rhythmic silence and an olive-green overcoat with flapped pockets and heavy boots and the six months old large-sized memories of a Himalayan home with black-lined large dove’s eyes flitting among coal fires their smoke towering over the pines in snow-bound peaks.
I ask that you be heard, tossed about , dreamed of. It is the turbulence we are speaking of, in the foggy sea we are or on the dizzy peaks where everything is bound in its fuzzy snow ,at the mountain passes where vehicles pass oiled by hot tea or in the mist-filled airports where air crafts do not take off of politicians who decide mankind’s future in the apocalypse.
I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of. It is my dreams as they were and the neighbor’s dreams ,in the straw-roof, in the banyan trees with glints in their eyes and much fine-powdered dust on their thick –coated leaves, in lonely watchmen’s houses on the bleak stony spaces and lonely watchmen keeping vigilant eyes on boulders strewn in brown spaces and scraggy bushes with strange lizards.
I ask that you be heard, tossed about , dreamed of. It is the towering tombs and the trees that enveloped them ,the children playing cricket in flying bats and stone stumps outside the vaults where kings and queens lay dead for ages their cold breath felt on the broken glass of Time’s windows. I ask that you, I and women play a game of kabaddi in the trees when it is still not dark enough in the minarets in the west and children are still hitting balls visible in the green of the trees.
Sitting on a parrot green branch in another park (still in the making) was preempted by a sleeping dog near it. The park is still making. The man who is building the park is biding.
I am back to the old green one. A man sits on the neighbour bench making nostril noises. He is biding till his lungs are full with wind .
Biding time , your old poet says. The poem of today was his biding. The dog in the other park near the parrot green bench was biding . The man in the Municipality who is making the park is biding.
Biding is an organic thing.
The world is not that crummy, says our auntie poet. She does not know where she got the information but she has just a feeling it is like this. Old man Seneca would console mom in a similar way when he was exiled. Seneca said these things happened all the time.But world is not all that crummy.
Hardly old man invested his enthusiasm in darker things of life .His stories handled tiny morsels of happiness as episodes in a general drama of pain. Sorry about the way we are piling metaphor upon metaphor .These things happen all the time, all the space .Metaphors occur in episodes .We all have these episodes. Especially when there is full moon and the sea is far away .
Poet auntie asks : I am nobody ,who are you ? She is highly hiphenated but she is suggesting to you that may be you are also a nobody. You may ask a frog in the bog the same question and get a croak in reply.
Poet auntie is not dark within her hiphens. She has no complaints about the world .The world may not be all that crummy according to her.
We have found out that we are a nobody too.
Poet auntie, who asked if you were a nobody like her ,wrote her gorgeous things on the envelope’s backs .Since she was a nobody she wrote no letters to nobody, who would reply nothing and there were only the envelopes to write hiphenated poems on.
She asked me with a hiphen- I am a nobody and you? I was glad to join her. Since I am nobody too,I keep asking the wall lizard if it likes to join the nobodys’ union. Kitta ,Kitta ,says the lizard loudly.
Poet auntie is highly hiphenated and she said she was a nobody, like a frog in a bog. We are not highly hiphenated .We are a nobody too. Rather we are dilapidated.
We do not have envelopes to write on. You cannot write hiphenated poems on the sides of emails. But we can sneak in some difficult poems in the sides of Websites through snide ads. And when someone clicks you get money .
A gentle breeze touches our winter skin , the very kite flying breeze we used to have on our roofs this day years ago .
Today the kites may be flying on high roofs in our former spaces. The breeze may be flying rooftop kites cutting each other down. Here we have no kites for the sun’s northward journey. But we have rice flour chariots for the sun on our roads.
Here we see women making beautiful rice flour drawings before the houses. Their motifs included new sugar cane and flowers of kitschy shapes. Some times there are chariots for the fiercest sun.Their colors run deep as their blood emotions. They run deep in ancient cave memories.
Missing humble bees mean cats on the prowl in bearded Darwin’s stretched out explanation. It is that cats are fond not of bees but of mice.A woman there with bees in left leg poly-cast has less to do of phone -selling and more with less poems in ante-room of ageing darkness.
We are humbled by bees ,in leg or elsewhere. At times we have them tingling in our sitting. They crawl our undersides, making us humble because clovers live and die with humble bees with no implied moral of biblical humbleness.
On the dark nights we look up the sky to find missing ancestors, so many of them crawling.We lose count and we are soon blood letting from our left foot of too many bees crawling as if they are the stars we have lost count of.
Thoughts went on in a mess of no meaning . No meaning would still mean some meaning . Even if we slurped tea at roadside kiosk and looked on at the lake of green hyacinth and our consciousness remained a puddle as we counted cups of drunk tea in waste bin.
From where we stood we saw the river of life flow quietly by scraggly rocks of Golconda .Our people’s consciousness came down to us as so many words spoke in the small hours and as textile pictures on sarees that felt like half formed country maps of new islands.
Our consciousness went on below skin touching our bones and would go on again in other tea-slurping bodies by decayed lakes in a steady stream of decaying bones and flesh.Their stories will flow like mountain stream.