Dance touched beginnings of space.
Her fingers fluttered in new births.
But the sea lay calm on its darkness.
She danced joy of Shiva in his locks.
They were snakes like glacial rivers
As they flowed away to thirsty sea.
There is dance, everywhere, on girl
As she demolished sea-borne space.
Our plane is metal bird flying
Non-metal birds of a passage.
Once we fluttered tiny fingers
At the birds of passage in sky.
We are now rust in a passage,
With men who are non-metal.
Non- metal men are dust too,
Like passages of flash poems.
We now flip our bony fingers
At every metal bird of passage.
Of the two girls who died on a road,
I go through a news of the moment.
I have made my own winter syntax,
Not God enough to engage in verbs
And not even the poet Billy Collins
Or the Collins of English dictionary.
Collins is no more fishing in silence.
It is I ,who is fishing on a sea shore
Making fishing inquiries on a beach
Why crows wait for a turtle carcass
And only thorn fish get washed up.
Their thorns are not to crows’ taste.
The old man shuffles feet on beach
In a syntax of the longish sentence
And only a full stop will end shuffle
In a moment of silence in his heart.
(after the poem “Winter Syntax” by Billy Collins)
Cloud gathers nothing new,
Under the sun or during sun
About men walking under it.
A sun rises again from sleep
As curtain rods rust and fall.
Eye glass will lessen and all.
Opt for a carpenter for rest,
An optometrist for the haze.
To begin depriving death of its greatest advantage over us, let us deprive death of its strangeness, let us frequent it, let us get used to it; let us have nothing more often in mind than death.
—Michelle de Montaigne (1580)
Do not sleep the
You get used to
Says poet who
In a sea, death is
On shores, we
Oftener in mind
Get used to it by
acting as if
You are the only
For future ones
To place flowers.
If only crows and we knew it-
Why the haze tasted like salt
And the men turned spectral
On footpath their lips walked
And fish fried in yellow van
In a sea-haze of salty deaths.
We smell death by evenings,
On nose, in memory of grief.
Tongue would taste the salt
Like gulping a sea at one go.
When a haze tasted like salt
Just before a rain in the sea.
A mother board has conked out,
Like our mothers will some time.
That television will conk out too,
To its pageantry of moving lines.
The whole racket of moving lines
Goes on in a pageant all the time.
We thank a poet in ripped Levi’s
Who has put ,all of us, on notice.
(After the poem “Notice” by Steve Kowitt)