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.
Orphan boy ,who wears a blue shirt,
Wants to be a mechanical engineer,
Since his parents forgot to own him ,
He is son to the cops who own him.
It is mechanical for the cops to own,
Like it is for folks who forgot to own.
Why be mechanical engineer in life?
Perhaps, boy likes to own machines.
The old man who remembers mom
Owns his tear or two, mechanically.
Orphans have no mothers to own.
Old man owns his mother up there.
When she has too much of this good thing,
Like cells multiplying in a child bag of past,
Body cracks ,sticking neck out at great risk.
So she removes the bag, removes a handle.
What is left and aren’t they gone, the little
Squiggly worms in the bag, all thrown out
Along with bag ,safely into a doctor’s bin?
Tell me where is her dyed hair from pate,
Now everything is fine and bag duly gone.
(Losing hair after chemo-therapy is some times more
traumatic than cancer itself)
A girl makes you the idiot you are , against
The stone-pelting of children who will love you
On your grave, their flowers sprinkled as if rain
You are the bright idiot weighed down by love
A diamond pin you will sell for a little girl
Who loved you in delicate hanging of five minutes
On a scaffold of death, the priest of a crucifix
Who will say absolutely nothing for your Christ
Life comes to the idiot in fits, paroxysms of joy.
(Reading The Idiot by Dostoevesky)