Oranges, Colour Theory, Death, and Writing-with Avani and Supurna

 

The unraveling peel both bright and dark
In its white pith-fibres, dispensing the sun,
In its wine-red skin, hoarding it. 
Oranges and plums (are they peaches?)
In Anne Vallayer-Coster´s kitchen (did she
Buy them?) pile light upon light as it
Reaches through fruit into woodgrain.
She doesn´t seek to hide them, the petals
Fallen from the unsuccoured flowers. 
The glass gleams, as does the knife
Inflicting no pain (yet) on  still-breathing
Life, the orange slices a sundial, counting
Down the hours.

*Inspired by Avani and Supurna´s mediations on oranges, and this tiny hand-sized copy I made of 17th century French painter, Anne Vallayer-Coster´s still life (seen here framed and ready for the art school´s annual exhibition)

Not my last poem but a fitting end-of-April ´To Anannya´ : Titled, as the page in the book is - Acknolwdgements - and dedicated to the Daily Riyaaz community

 

For Charu, with Bhaswati

If glass jars could hold words, mine
Would meet the sheer walls of 
Reflection and shine, gold in the day
Silver all night. Your plants would
Know how to make my words 
Grow from single notes into lines
Of music like poets singing the morning
So practiced that kettles whistle
And birds rise; a sunrise of eyes
Meeting each letter in recognition,
And our mothers materialise out of
Memory and desire. (See how old
Poets conspire to to speak in our
Tongues!) if glass jars could hold 
My words I would sit happily among
The paraphernalia of your days
Quickening to life or melting to stone
Never alone.

Minus One Feels Like Minus Seventeen

It may only be words minus courtesy;

Feels like a bludgeoning assault.

Only quoting someone else;

Feels like megaphoned hate speech.

It might’ve been a while since I hit

Such a wall, since no one tripped me;

That’s how hard I fell. There are winds

That blow without answers, my friend,

That make a cudgel of a stick. It’s hard

To tell if what we need is more walls

To hold up the courage to bend. It

May only be the end of the world;

Feels like everyone’s got it under 

Control. It may only be a missile 

Hurled; feels like they’ve cleaned up

The debris, filled up the hole, packed

Cotton into wounds, stacked sandbags 

Against the sea. Must be the wind

That makes it feel like a collective 

Destiny.

IYKYK

 Dear citizen, just a short note: As enfranchised, you have the vote But sadly, may not cast it. You may Appeal and the court repeal but There was a deadline and tragically You’re past it. Your candidate of choice Looked like a winner but without your Polled voice her constituency is Somewhat thinner, and we say this with Genuine sorrow that your Turn may not come today Or even tomorrow but here’s Genuine footage of a bride cutting short Her honeymoon - pictured with Wedding finery still on, along with The groom - to cast her vote and Lend her support to the politician Supreme. Ignore please the fact that She has clearly done this too soon - Miraculously, indeed, before it’s Due date - or that she seems to have Two inked nails on the index finger. Do not allow such doubts to linger, Dear unvoting citizen on the rolls. This election you may not decide The outcome for your State, but Rest assured we’ll manage the polls. (You too, Dear Reader). Best wishes, Your Beloved Leader.

 I wanted to go jogging but it looked like rain.

The skies were blue as blue could be but

You could see this little white stain. 

I looked for opportunity but I clearly looked

In vain before my nap, after high tea and

Between loungings on the sofa watching

Afternoon TV. I couldn’t find my knees 

Because of all the pain, my back refused

To budge my brain forgot to brain. I swear

I’ll venture out again but should it not be

Possible for some very good reason I’ll be 

Sure to take the time to make a meme to 

Explain.

How to Un-adult

 Baby flamingos love
Splashing in puddles,
Did you know? Like little
Fat duckies white fluff
Bodies bouncing in
Up-spurts of fun.
What would it take,
Do you think, to evade
The urge to grow
Into the elegant one-
Legged long necked pink 
Sloping-away from the
Sun? Be the baby flamingo 
You never were. Find 
That big feather-down 
Bum. Don’t let anyone 
Tell you you shouldn’t 
Plant it plonk into the 
Puddle that wasn’t. 

Comfort Zones

I have held glass jugs 
Weighted down with leaving.
Churned skill sets around
Light as whipped butter.
I have shifted time zones
And comfort zones and
Zones geographical when
Meridians gleamed darkly
Under indigo oceans.
The shadow of my wings
Has skimmed over seas
So forgive me if I paint
In monotones brushing
Aside discomfort only
To feel at ease. I may 
Learn nothing, I freely
Admit. Wars rage within
And without me. 
I need not submit. 

**because I fell back on techniques I was comfortable with**

A New York State of Dime (Inspired by Gitanjali´s One Way Street)

 I was young (or younger), slim (Or slenderer). A borrowed Jacket (called a bar hopper) And other things I had on Gave a swanky dazzle (I thought) To my step. It was evening, I Was in Manhattan, how much cooler Could I get. The bus on Second Ave Was late. I felt like a Noo Yawker Hands in pockets, nonchalant. “Do you have the time" I asked The elegant, elderly, lady. She Turned, her pearls gleaming With suspicion. "What? You Want a dime?" I think of that evening more

Often than I should. How I pointed to my wrist so that she Would be spared the embarrassment As we both stood In the faintly drizzling air, Got on to the same bus, The evening glittering In our hair.

Streets of Desire

 

There is, sometimes, an overabundance of things.
More than you need, less than you desire, enough
To make you want to hold, to count, to see, to
Try to fix each one, to raise it to the light, see
If it will catch fire. It is dark and you watch
The moon rise like the sun, perfect and regal,
Monarch of the night but there they are, 
Strung up on poles, sodium coloured squares
In pairs, riddling the streets with fiery holes. 
Not to be outdone, the red and green preen,
More in control than the paling queen, 
Floating now in greys feeling outnumbered,
Unseen. Yes, sometimes there is an over
Abundance of things. I would say be careful
But really why should we be. Fill your 
Pockets, rejoice to the jingling of the
Small change that joy comes in. Feel it
With hungry fingers, smooth and light.
Take a break from the endless fight.

Is it time

 

Is it time, I wonder, to put away

All evidence of winter, now

That April is here. All things

Red gold or green have long

Since been laid between sheets

And boxed to be reopened next

Year when decorated anew the

House bursts afresh with cheer. Is it

Time then to tuck these branches

Of ivy and pine, silvered and pearled

With berries the colour of wine?

There is darkness still, though

Less as the days grow long. Isn’t

It nice to have a few points of

Shine to distill winter courage,

In crystal refractions through the

Flapping wings of the night?

Easter brought snow as expected,

The white encrusting the silver

Before spring is resurrected.

Maybe it’s time to let go, repaint

The last signs of winter and wait For things to grow.

In which the poet wonders who named the mission of a spaceship called Orion, Artemis

I saw Orion descend and
Tread peaceful waters like
The son of god he wasn´t.
Falling flaming out of the 
Skies like the disobedient
Son he wasn´t. This 
Wasn´t one of the stories
In which he dies but
There are tales of him
And Artemis. Sometimes
He deserves it, sometimes
She is deceived. But in
Each of them she kills him.

Kourotrophic. Protector
Of children and chastity.
Is the ocean chaste, I wonder.
Or does it teem with the voices
Of children, moonlight
Exploding on it in waves. Does
The ocean hunt, I wonder,
Or, being pacifist, receive
Little bodies into its keep.
Odysseus, I remember, said
'The deep moans round
With many voices'. Orion,
Only human, Artemis, divine
Hunter newly returned from
The moon - is there any
Version of this story where
We live with our choices
Ever after?

A Camus Treatise

 

Maybe he wasn´t wrong, after all. Ironic.

Given recent contentions to the contrary.

He wasn´t wrong – just prescient – in

The beach-hazed heat-crazed brain-dazed

Histrionic fit of killing some nameless

Faceless voiceless person and then

Killing him again and again and

Again and again because here we

Are. Lifeless. Graceless. Why

Do we not weep, how do we not

Cry for our mothers even as they are

Buried under rubble falling glass

Shattered stars bits of moon chipped

Off as Artemis flies past. Maybe

He was right, just not strong enough

To tell us to our faces. That we are strangers

To each other. Bare headed, evicted,

Cast out. What peace what place

Will accept us now that we have

Splintered every home. Outsiders.

Alone. 

On discovering that the painting was once cut in half and sold separately

 

The secret of the chord
May never be known nor
If it pleased the Lord but Saul,
Plunged in darkness not
Of his making weeps the seas
That burden him. Light seeps
Into his turban, the shadowed
Hall - in Syria or Palestine -
Cloistering David, his fingers,
The rich brown of his harp. Once
Divided, now restored, against
His ruins the plucked strings
Are shored. The music
Is all behind the closed eyes.
Why then does the tortured king
Turn his gaze on us, black as
David’s hair? What would he
Have us note, make us sing,
What unspeakable knowledge
Would he have us bear?

*Rembrandt’s Saul and David

A Seasonal Haiku with Bombs

It isn’t because The nights are getting shorter That we’re sleeping less.

*With thanks to Gitanjali´s poem on the days getting longer :)

Instead

A cache of old photographs we thought

Lost; Grandma’s pink blazer for tomorrow’s

Conference; bread baked in a Christmas

Gift pot; the cat lap-napping during

Piano practice. Instead.

Rain has kept us indoors today. Just

As well. Hell clamours for our attention

Out there. Consider the zeroes in the

Number of the dead. Watch for

Flashes in the sky. Sudden sound.

Be aware.

Instead.

Clean the kitchen; switch off the lights;

Wash. Turn down the covers of your

Bed. All the little rituals before sleep

May be invited in. The minutiae on

Which hope is fed, the bits that keep

Going. Build on those

Instead.

 

Hraundrangi

 

Up close the crags of Hraundrangi
Bristle with stories; fear maybe, courage,
Daring, perhaps sadness, deep
Sorrow. Wild joy might leap into skies
That bend grey ears to the tale.
Even the river shivers in anticipation.
But the dog hears the old boat -
Upturned, broke-backed, bright
Coloured paint-cracked. Sure footed,
She picks her way between flowers
Listening. Who knows what lives
The old boat harbours, what voices
Crust along its much used hull.
There are no oars, she sees no rower.
The lake, too, is quiet, rippling unreflective
To the grassy shore, dog and boat
Just out of reach.

On Packing Away My Mother’s Saris

What wisdom lies in those boxes

I can’t say. Stories folded into

Silks, sweat lining into the borders,

Witty repartee shining from gold

Thread and sharp orders printed

Into patterns, all this lies as much

In my fingers pleating new drapes,

Ankles skirting new edges, shoulder

Blades skimming new necklines. 

What wisdom then, in stacking and

Hoarding and packing. What strength lies 

In lifting each sari, feeling it

Against my face - the cottons the

Tussars, the embroidery, the lace -

I can’t say. Those boxes don’t store 

Away the rustle of her quick steps

But I can hear her on a good day -

The bustle and movement like

An outline of the house and us,

Stick figures, snug, fitted in. More

Than wisdom lies in those boxes, less

Than memory, something yet to wear.

Easter Snow

 

Frost roses must do for this season
Of sweet showers and the prospect
Of May flowers. White ghosts of lilacs
Preserving memories of poets past. At last,
The comfort of winter is here,
Soothing thorns weary with waiting,
The burden of preparation laid by.
The eye, bruised with anticipation
Softened, gauzed, swathed. Bathed
Now in gentle whiteness. It will come
Soon enough, spring, with its
Brightness, its roses, its demands
On the senses. For now, April snow
Dispenses with the pressure to grow,
Proceed, be productive, know. It
Blankets the rose bush, hushing,
Melting hands on bare temples,
Asking nothing
In its silence. 

joe Keeps An Eye on Things

 

Joe is concerned for the Clauses. They appear

No older that they did last year or indeed

The year before. He considers possible

Causes: do they not eat as they should,

Nor work as hard as they could to

Update those lists of who´s been bad and

Who´s been good. Joe pauses:

These Santas - Mrs and Mr -

Seem to him increasingly

Suspicious, perhaps even

Sinister. Best not to enquire

Overmuch into Christmas Miracles,

Joe thinks, and other such. He himself

Struggles to supervise the disjointed

Celebratory efforts of his family

With whom he remains mildly Disappointed.