A grass cutter, I use Frost’s scythe
In the middle of night’s idle hours
To whisper about moon coolness
And not a sound by starry wood.
I make hay by the prettiest swale,
Not a green snake stirs from fear.
But scythe is Shakespearean time,
In sonnet in iambs of pentameter.
Excuse me ,we are short of iambs
At feet, lost to vast empty spaces.
Nearer a home our Frost’s scythe
Mows spiked grass in wood fame.
In the snowed hills we see pretty
Dames with grass on their heads
As if hill is continuation of dame.
The scythe lies snug in the dame.
(referring to Robert Frost’s poem Mowing)
On the green bench , after the fall
Of brown almond leaves on a road,
Brown leaves and puppies in them,
You looked up to see men rotating.
Their silver fish swim in your eyes.
After January sleep there is death,
A fetal state for a stale belly dream
With the pillow between your feet.
There will be February with March
Working as a shadow like its death,
A rotating with your suns dropped
In hills or ocean , some such thing.
Myself is soandso all by myself
From the time of a cloth cradle.
Myself had a wall within a wall
A cloth where myself would cry.
Myself went into the bigger sky
When myself was just this high.
Myself horizontal to white wall.
A white wall is now my horizon.
We are in the Indus valley’s gaseous state
Mud walls melted to earth by rains of time,
Civilized drains no more flowing in seams,
Its jetties drying away from turquoise seas
Its ghost ships turned misty in the horizon.
Its people , crowd’s buzz , are sparse ruins
Their faces covered by earth-dust of time.
There were no embalmed corpses staring
At ancient coffin lids as if their sky of stars
Flickering in star dust ,risen from samsara,
Their plinth-ed walls baked by ancient suns.
From samsara to nirvana, in a gaseous state
They have reached , space their new home.
It is the sound that comes from a child
A child of the earth from climbed wall,
By a tree of leaves plucked into pocket
For worship of stone god in vermilion
And yellow softness of a beginning god.
It is god nestled in a heap of yellow rice
And it is women of rustling silks of air,
Fragrant of worship flowers and flame.
It is flame that dies in a floral fragrance
But re-lives to verify a continued living.
Almond , almond , why do you fall
When birds have stomach cramps?
Almond, almond, why are you light
When there are no more painters?
Almond,almond is there God’s son
In Mandorla light ,almond shaped?
Are minds almond sharp over milk
When a moon is partly bird eaten?
The crows crowd around dead turtle.
It looks like turtle season is here,
Going by carcasses wave brings.
Inside the womb of deepest sea
Turtle moms are growing fatter.
Now is season for fecundity
The eggs may be getting ready
For hatching in holes in the beach
We can sense the fecund season
By the carcasses washed ashore.