There it is my mountain with a mouth open at its top ,a hole in childhood village where monks lived for peace.These late poems breath life to the old choked with bare trees.
A good old poet sets about re-ordering pines, avoiding the clutter of the top clouds,to be free of unseasonal rain with resultant mud to sky. Rain drowns a pine’s loneliness at the top, late poems are about.
Krishna’s mountain frees us from pebble rain of angry gods when we are down in its under,what our late poems are about.
When everything was going the Borges way and my head seemed a vast egg full of astral matter that could spill anytime like yellow yolk, a little recall of the details relating to my own coming into this earth is in order:
Electricity struck a mother’s middle finger
Causing radically twisted views about life.
The electric wires came from father’s love
Who embraced them to get the wind going,
For a baby- son perspiring in summer heat.
Baby might have cried viable disapproval.
It was unclear if it was okay to deprive son
Of a father’s love, by embracing live wires.
It was wrong choice, a crazy quirk of fate,
A poetic justice, before a future unfolded,
A finger-pointing by its fate at a life-script
Ere a prologue is writ, an epilogue began.
High on the view of the sandy river,the trees squatted along a mossy wall ,open-eyed and shaking with curiosity.Through the river view, mild winds evaporated a brown sand that mirrored a strange world holding a moment of the trees. A house loomed on the horizon with a half vehicle parked before it respectfully.It seems a certain German had made a fetish of making beauty out of a laterite terrain that boasted two rivers, between them at a sisterly distance of twenty five kilometers.A park named after him had to be re-named after the white Caucasians left the place and it was duly named after a free country’s prime minister who had been named after a certain river canal of Kashmir. Lameyer loved steel and flowers. And rivers with hot sand.He made much out of them.
Nothing burned at Burnpur. Only there was a certain Burn of Martin Burns fame whose name it bore after the old name of diamond town went away from people’s memory.The park rose high on everyone’s agenda, the park of Lameyer, the German who loved terraces of flower gardens along the river bank.
The question arose whether Damodar was a male river or a female.It was finally settled it was a male river. How could it be a female river when it turns so violent in monsoon and destructive to people? But now the river is tamed by five dams in the valley.It is sad river,a sorrowful one river with large vacant stretches.
A desire is a lower body, a higher mind, a midnight’s rain, a tree’s stance. A wind that is making midnight unduly vocal. Dogs are contextually missing .But snakes exist in their slither down the drainpipe of rainwater. The rain slams the sleeping voices of drunk watchmen fitfully alert with their sticks. Their wives’ laughter stays hidden in a medulla , a hibiscus flower meant for goddess worship. Their daughters mutter newly learnt “A” for Apple in sleep.
The rain is incident ,knocking conjugal doors at odd hours. Interfering in conversations..When we wake up from conversations our dreams begin.Our daydreams of golden sunlight, when there is no more gray and silver rain but an exquisite sun-and-rain situation, where the sun warmly collides with rain.Where the rain and sun live in mutual bliss.
Like when dogs and vixen used to marry in our childhood. That was when the kids persuaded the rain to beat our roofs on promises of chicken eggs, duck eggs. The grown up rain has no mind nor body to eat eggs. But rain was a child’s friend and a friend had to eat farm-fresh chicken eggs for breakfast. So it could beat our asbestos roofs faster. And slither smoothly down its corrugations along with dried yellow flowers waiting to drop to the earth.
These are not made of effulgent light that dissipates to the interior of west. They are made of real earth to break.
Watch made- to- break horse smiles as their faces break in a comic mirth of earth horses expected to fly a sky.
(Bankura in West Bengal is famed for beautiful terra cotta horses made by traditional craftsmen)
The language poet says we write and speak from the area of ignorance. We write from unknown and ineffable, a darkness that rises from our sleep, a common sleep all through the ages of ignorance, our misunderstandings.
All things are like, sublime and trivial. Towards evenings , we are wet in eyes.
The black granite form decked in flowers smiles through the camphor flames, stone’s smile meant for flesh’s eyes eagerly waiting for a miracle or two.
Do not focus light on lights and miss a miracle of sleeping God in sanctum with the smile intact on His sleeping ,says a woman counting acts of faith.
Woman is flesh , a mouth in miracle. Granite sleeps in flowers of camphor.The flame is lit in our common chests ,a fragrance of love, a miracle of faith.