Neither here nor there

At midnight we are right at the center a medias in res adaptation of old story –a long haul of a distant tireless forest peopled by honey bears hiding darkly in bushes, with the mountains sleeping at the furthest view of seeing nothing ,an opaqueness common to all dreams.

You forget you are in an opaque night and dreaming at a black core of night. Your creatures are shrouded in a dark like bears that may yet descend hills when you are sleeping on river bank with sticks by side to shoo them away if and as they descend on sugarcane crop.

But at the end of stillness is sea’s hum. A brine of vast possibility rises to moon by aggregation of darkness in thought, a point you are neither here nor there.

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Train journey

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 on a forehead. Train would oblige not to tremble Like Nepal under a falling debris.

Our forehead obliges with Brahma’s 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.

Vertical

The picture tube plays its shadows at the back, like the winter night’s picture in picture, thin at the edges as if it is the sea at night touching a sky briefly at the horizon of rising.

It is at right angles to the horizon ,a conscious mind ‘s spanning night as its chimes go on in empty night. All things are at right angles to it. Even the night watchman’s whistle.

The watchman’s stick taps the earth vertically, exploring essential hollow. Watchman is vertical to the horizon, homo erectus previously on all fours. But moon is not vertical to watchmen being sprawled horizontally in trees. At night it hangs vertically in the sea.

Sparrows at midnight

At 1.30 AM there was not even the hum of the sea. The sea had quietened after a windy excitement of the day before. At three I could hear the watcman’s stick tap.

Since sleep was hard to come I recalled the sparrows of yesterday when they were seen on the almond tree. The sparrows here are more strident and always move in gangster groups.

They sit on the compound wall in groups and at times fly in a single formation to the only tree here that is the almond tree now heavy with green almonds.

By May the almonds will be maroon ripe and the leaves start falling all over the road. I don’t know where the sparrows will live in the tree entirely stripped of its leaves.

I write a sparrow poem and try to get back to sleep. To little avail.So I write this journal hoping at the end of it I will slip softly into sleep.

Here is the sparrow poem:

Sparrows

Sparrows not seen in beach,
Some times I find one or two

Pigeons on beach but crows
Monopolize the entire beach.

Crows lick whole beach clean ,
Eating up any piece of death

Washed ashore in the night.
Crows have no sparrows day.

They polish up sparrow dead
Even on World Sparrows day.

I have counted 25 sparrows
On an almond tree together

Along with spring’s almonds,
Excluding the one on beach.

I await sparrows in a mirror
Pecking at angry duplicates.

Our extended home

We make this our extended home ,this immensely compressed space,a light rolled in endless carpet ,a shadow infinitely multiplied, the poetics of our home space. Dust atoms descend a skylight, in tiny suns creating our space,expanding our eyes of vision everywhere, corners puffing like dream cats that self-destruct behind doors.

Doors are brooms to sweep light off its shadows and shadows fall in an abyss of light from a balcony to come back for ripe apple sun,to live a world by and die by moon.

How was your day?

Don’t ask me. The day continues to be bad. A Bay of Bengal cyclone continues to rage in my under-belly, with the cyclicality of ten hours or so between four hour episodes.

Tomorrow I will have a live camera inserted in my belly , while I will keep my mouth agape. The camera shall bring out any delinquent stuff that is inside.

At the sea there were ants of bathing people. On the night of Shiva, Shiva eats poison for the world’s sake and the world shall take sacred bath and keep vigil all through the night. Just to keep up morale.

Shiva freezes poison in his throat. He turns blue, like the blue sky hanging on the sea I feel in my balcony. Like the Shiva actor roaming the streets for the entertainment of passersby and his livelihood. Like the blues the office-goers sport on their sun-tanned faces on Mondays.