We are trying to understand closely
The nature of things with metaphors
Including ourselves, through sunsets
And wind chimes in the night breeze.
We understand only by other things.
We come to half of an understanding
With the balance left to other nights
That shall hold the nature of things
Until we turn things we try to grasp,
Full blown metaphors , null and void.
Now a red fruit from the banyan
Would perturb green somnolence
In circles that radiated as a pain
On the surface of cancer disease.
There is water in her skin breath
And out of it , a spasmodic event,
The banyan’s periodic fruit drops
That has no control over its fruit.
Tiny stones of ice fell from a cumulus
As if a sky god hurled stones at us
And a fierce wind hissed in the trees
As rain snakes entered uptight trees
And might enter bedroom windows
If we did not close them fast enough.
The sound is bird of a far off night
Come through a round kitchen hole
Designed to let in useful starlight
When not letting out the exhaust.
Bird could have come from a body
To bid au revoir to the other bodies
Whose ironic birds seem charting
Their own flight paths in a dark sky
Through the very same kitchen vent.
A setting sun opens up girl’s face
Over her lover’s letter in window,
Not for a painter to give name to,
But let her live gloriously brief life
With the sun in permanent dusk.
So I let mine live anonymously
In their permanent space of glory
In a face recognition not named,
Sharing varying degrees of light,
With ambience button for mood.
(Reference in stanza 2 is to Vermeer’s painting “Girl reading a letter at an open window“)
Truckman could have sold her body
Not its inside bird seeking its release
To hills, on the road,from the physics
Of another body seeking own release.
Bodies are seen lumped up together
In our living rooms,in our bathrooms.
It is only on highway we can sell them
And keep the vestigial birds for free.
(Watching a Hindi movie “Highway“)
The train now comes chugging in ,
Accompanied by steam of people
In repetitive bests,the newspapers
Crackling on their trousered laps
With old news of who dies where.
A suicide collects bored crowds
At the edge of a platform framed
By the disinterested winter sky.
We wait for ennui to die of itself.