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)
Four in the afternoon is brilliant lake in teals
From an alien land come flying a long away,
Coexisting in crowded bazaar of local cranes.
Together we shop, tell the teals among cranes.
Lake is everyone’s shopping for stomach fish.
Some fish dance inside empty air of baskets
By the lake ,for women to decide their prices.
Soon they are on the way to hungry stomachs.
The banyan spreads dark hair on the muddy river
And its red fruits are dropping on it like rain drops.
Come to its folds to experience our sleep and death
In an extorting sleep, the interest for a life’s capital.
The fruits mark time for periodic interest payments
And interest shall cease only on a final redemption.
In the meantime we sleep off our interest payments
And each time ,hope that interest is not redemption.
(Schopenhaur’s famous financial metaphor in which he calls sleep little interest payments for the capital of life we had borrowed at birth that will cease only on death,the final redemption)
Eighty and five springs in leaf-ends later
She still finds her life a song , a number
Not numeric, but mere music and matter.
She can hear crickets’ music in lumber
Frog-lets croaking in night’s rain-puddle.
In autumn years perhaps you imagine
Her steeped in mixed aural sounds, in muddle
A vague spectacle of death in a life’s din.
In such music one hears yellow leaves crunch
As if they are the dress one wears for lunch.
In Bishnupur horses no longer fly
Their decorated necks look pretty
But break and dissolve to the earth.
We now have potato cold storages.
Our youth play cards under banyan.
Our horses do not fly these days.