Waking up

 

They waited

Lay low

Drowsy in the 

Soil's warm hollow.

People forgot

Did they ever exist

In the pot?

The magical caress of monsoon rain

Spurred life, soothed pain.

Up are they now.

Fresh and dew-swept.

Soaking in daylight

Like they never ever slept.

What bees know

Is there a way to reach the end of thought

to see the yellow flowers and not say

goldenrod, both 'gold' and 'rod' so fraught

with meaning? Can 'sun' and 'moon' light the day

and night without becoming metaphors?

If a god appears, can I unknow which one

no name, no how and why, and just adore

the feet, or whatever my eye lands on?

Meanwhile, these panicles of gold alive

with insects exude their nectar, the field

abuzz with what to me almost looks like

ecstasy. If only I could stop words, yield

the pen, the page to the sunlit hour

watch the poem unwrite itself. Flower.

Left to a Prayer, Ghazal

 

PARADISE OF STRANGERS

The day's mistakes are written off by gregarious evenings.

In this maximum Mexican city, crowds swell, tacos sizzle

Sidewalk markets erase the memory of drab office meetings.

Time upturns convention here, in this rebel Caribbean island. 

Vintage cars past their sheen, bread on ration, cigars on a roll

Cuba libre, son cubano, Che on dilapidated walls, all go hand in hand. 

Through deep forests and the reality of magic, even graves here live

Old ladies sell fried yams; old men huddle under ancient trees.

Cities obese with history, towns coy with secrets, this is how places heave. 

Art deco cafes and office buildings, parks and mercados whisper yesterdays

once more, teasing the sentimental, the lost, the hopelessly romantic

In this paradise of strangers, love creates its own labyrinthine ways.

 

WALKING WITH FEAR

I and my fear walk on two sides

of a Patagonian city. A leisurely

walk, something of a break before

heading to lazuline lakes and gauzy

mist saltating around glacial peaks.

Fear keeps a steady pace. My limbs

are less certain. I've avoided this

fear (it's a special one) since I was

twelve, maybe thirteen, and now it's

come to meet me in this oddest of places.

Fear is on the other side of the road.

Yet it's also inside me. I can feel

its throb coursing through my blood.

I stagger and turn back to return where

I came from. Fear looks at me and waits.

I've always dreaded this moment. To be

on the road with Fear, which mostly stays

asleep somewhere in the mind's department

of irrational affairs. Now there is no

escaping it. Fear clasps me from the other side.

A tree trunk becomes the wall I hide behind.

I decide to wait Fear out, as if it were no

more than a headache. When I turn around, I

find Fear waiting patiently for me at the

turn of a corner. The drama gets to me.

I ignore Fear and keep walking. Deep inside

I expect it to quietly leave. But it walks

on the other side, same as before. We walk

the full distance together. I gasp for breath,

seek safety, turn the doors on Fear. 

Only when it moves on do I realize it was 

there to protect me, to play with me. 

To show me I'd been calling it by 

the wrong name all along.

Hiding

The skin, and underneath, the bone

pierced by mouth and nose and eyes

this face that has become my own

The stranger in the mirror's shown

without insides, not what hides

beneath the skin, beneath the bones

Who will for all my sins atone

This one who seems surprised 

by the face that has become my own?

When kneeling naked and alone

I pray, could I just once abscise

the skin, see underneath the bone

What hides in there? the one unknown

that layer on layer has long disguised

the skin, and underneath, the bone

Face the face become my own

Inheritance

 

THE SHAPLINESS OF FAMILIARITY

 

The plot is a storybook orphan

wild and insolent with the arrogance

of partheniums. Hemmed in, it resists

boundaries as if they were bullies.

When they come up at last, the walls

are punctuation marks misplaced in

an ill-constructed sentence.

Semi-finished. Messy.

Could the walls be missing some

friends too, like the ten-year-old

who comes to live among them?

This new geometry, its foreign

angles, is puzzling. The girl wishes

she possessed the whale's superpower.

Echolocation. Here power-cut nights

swallow echoes before they can fly.

A rhombus rescues the girl. She

knows this shape from math lessons

in school. Here in this clumsy

rectangle of a dwelling, a new gate,

black iron, collapsible, manifests

to keep pilfering trickery out. Her

grandfather pulls it every evening

and the iron folds enlarge into

rhombus holes. This too is homecoming.

This shapeliness of familiarity.

A dancer, his eyes orbs of fire, 

his limbs, flying talons, comes 

to live on a wall. The girl looks 

at him from her bed. He's still

and yet he moves, like her thoughts 

do even when she appears seemly. 

The dancer's glistening forehead,

his diamond sharp gaze, tells her

this is home. She believes him.

The plot is home. 

WINDOW SCREEN

 

The southern window telecasts summer.

The news is the same as the day before

and the one before it. Bumblebees dance

inside squash and cucumber flower cones, 

their super-stinger cousins, honey bees 

flutter about with a slightly more 

no-nonsense, menacing buzz. 

Human feet comply and retreat.

Scenes of branches tilted with crab apples 

Reddening daily are occasionally flashed. 

Fillers, soft (Sunday) news, to bide the time, 

help thirsty eyes until something bigger, 

flashier comes along.

Sunflowers are temperamental as ever. 

Arriving late, exploding with a vengeance, 

stealing the thunder off every other flower. 

Also off the red apples. The bumbles shift 

base and don't leave the giant Fibonacci 

spheres. Some even sleep on the flower, 

a quick office nap. 

On a late August afternoon, the sunflower 

patch is the site of breaking news. Bigger 

wings, brighter, dyed in the flower's own 

hues, flutter on the plates of sunflower leaves. 

A goldfinch couple finds this bonanza, this feast 

of seeds. They invite friends to the buffet. The birds' 

calisthenics upturn their tiny frames to draw out 

seeds from drooping, once-gorgeous sunflowers. 

The sleepy bumblebee wakes up and sets 

about its collection business. 

The broadcaster window is back in business too.

September ghazal

Autumn clematis always knows - it's fall

Milky Way of scented stars shows - it's fall

Petals of the rose, leaves that turn 

to gold, like sunset, glow, then fall

Those summer days that never end

have flown, soon winter's blow will fall

Savour grapes left on the vine

and peaches, picked before they fall

Nectar on the tongue, sun distilled

like honey drips, overflows and falls

The notes of songs I used to sing

rise up, then low and slow, they fall

No Big Deal

You spend a lifetime not showing how you feel
Trying hard to be the person who fits in
Saying this is how it is, it is really no big deal.

Wrapped around your guts are spools of steel
Your heart practiced in echoing hollow tin
Saying this is how it is, it is really no big deal.

It doesn’t take very long for blood to congeal
Flowing out to the floor, growing deathly thin
Saying this is how it is, it is really no big deal.

Going round and round on a potter’s wheel
Forgotten clay out, out for a lonely spin
Saying this is how it is, it is really no big deal.

Still looking for a place to dig your heel
Settling for sand that will shift but give in
Saying this is how it is, it is really no big deal.

Healing, they say, will soften you to life’s appeal
Bring you back love embedded in your skin
You spent a life time not showing how you feel
Saying this is how it is, it is really no big deal.

 

 

Joe Does His job

 

It is my duty unpleasant, his face
Clearly says, to bar your way. Please
Understand my predicament: you
Mean to go but I think you
Should stay. Our Mr Joe
Makes his argument compelling.
He has noted the sluggish will,
The lurching walk, the lack of sleep
Welling in the eyes. He sighs. He
Knows he should be doing more.
But for now he forbids the setting
Off for work. He guards the gates.
He bars the door. His presence
Is mighty though his bulk
Be small.

Old Fashioned Love Songs

 

High, where the branches are thinnest, the
Outermost reaches slender as wands
Bringing lost children back to cradles,
Faint as sighs in the stretched, yellow
Silences of the late afternoon,sharp
As the blade that releases the tide
From the clutches of the moon, so high
That none but the cloud cleaving sun
Would aspire to draw near, but no higher
Would dare to enfold would care to
Lay hold, ensnare and warm the cold
Hard little fingers of gold. That high,
My love, there, where any tree will sing
You the fierceness of its faith, any
Twig recite for you the years and minutes
Of its wait, there, where light journeys
The earth to regain this threshold, there
My sweet, you could trace these countless
Stories of a love foretold.

Tools of the Trade

 

To give and get in return: that’s
One way to think of trade. Midnight
Oil to smoke and burn hunched
Over canvas, parchment, loom,
Chisel and marble, sandstone,
Jade. Perfection is only ever
A dream. Any toiler with a fiddle
And bow will tell you she lives
For the incremental progress
The slow improvement the
Thousandth repeat when it finally
Seems to approximate to
Music. The muse is tied to the
Strings. It is possible one day
The brush the paint the writer’s
Quill will set her free and when she
Sings the tools will consider
Your dues paid. Another way
To think of trade.

To Sleep Perchance

 

Writing verse on May Day
Seems like a lot of labour. I
Usually have a lot to say about
The Fool’s work of April. Joe
On the other hand (mine, in
This case) needs no occasion
To rest. Everything’s a pillow,
Sleep a welcomed guest; napping
Not so much an activity as
A place. Perhaps there is
Poetry in a cat’s attitude. Perhaps
The best rhymes are those
Of gratitude. 

Let there be light in your vote

Though siyaasath is dark and dirty
let there be light in your vote
Unko math bithaanaa in the House
jinke mooh mein Raam is also badnaam
or who use the sacred flag
to wipe their hands – a dirty rag
Let there be peace in your vote
and a vast, all-encompassing love
don’t forget to remember
don’t forget to remember
Let there be peace in your vote
and a vast, all-encompassing love.

Sestina

She puts on her boots and coat, walks out the door, waves

who knows where she's going, she's moving so fast

no money, no plan, except to go for broke

and to listen only to the speaking of her heart

What is life after all, but this one lesson

repeated, everything changes, everyone leaves

It's autumn, the trees have let go their leaves

the wind's blown the surface of the lake into waves

She needs to swim, even breathing's a lesson

the body relearns in the rhythm of water, slow, fast fast

to the steady pumping of blood from the heart

that can be, and will be, she doesn't yet know it, broken

She finds out what it means to be so broke

you sleep in the park, where through the leaves

the silver spoon of the moon gladdens your heart

and the hunger for living comes in wild waves

When she can't eat, she will willingly fast

She can't help but learn it, that hunger does lessen

She's learning all those other lessons

that you don't need to fix it, if its not broke

that maybe you shouldn't always move so fast

that sometimes, it doesn't matter how, you must just leave

and also, some other time you can let the next big wave

take you to the shore, carry you. She takes heart

But this is the problem with hearts

as unruly as hers, no lesson

is really learned. When he waves

goodbye the several pieces, broken 

lie there, like autumn leaves

crumble when she tries to hold them fast

Not too slow, not too fast

this is the rhythm of the heart

flowers drop their petals, trees their leaves

they have no need of lessons

when, on the shore it's broken

it recedes and starts again, the wave

The past, where the waves break

and her heart beats fast

is always a lesson in what we leave

The Clock

 

When they tell you to rush

Because there isn’t enough time

And you’re reminded of the days

When you needed to bide time

So often they urged you to be useful

It’s almost a crime to waste time

Pulling all-nighters to meet the deadline

Didn’t you wish you could buy time

Long childhood afternoons were best

With such pleasure you would kill time

Now you are finally content to rest

There’s so little that’s required to fill time.

inertia

Watching a man change direction 

mid stride at the crosswalk

I notice the gentle tilt of his torso

backwards

downward

as though body and intention

are not yet aligned.

Moving through this city

I find myself returning

to the places

you have shown to me

or that I, perhaps,

would have shown to you

in time. 

So much remains

by design or accident.

Pastness in the moving body.

Memory in the mourning self.

There is no need 

to look for markers. 

Move softly. 

The body remembers. 

 Continents apart

phone conversations 

redraw the map

In every child's mind

mother she is

never a girl

Singing a song

bending sounds

to soothe a nerve

In an old diary

finding love

cringing in defeat

Peak

A peak is not a point;

It is a place for dreaming.

The tallest summit can be climbed 

By lone wolves, pairs and packs. 

Why hoard your vistas? Free them.

Let them float like ashes on

The breeze. Let all who see

The summit smile. The climb down

Will begin at dawn; the dawn

We all came here to see. 

God

God put us on this earth to recycle paper.

We pass it around till the world turns to vapor.

God put us on this earth to understand trees.

We split them so we could inspect them with ease.

God told us, "Call this number to book an appointment." 

The pre-recorded message told us we were a disappointment. 

God makes less sense as each day goes by.

"Take two before bed," He screams, "lest you should die."

God needs a breather, He's got burnout, we think. 

Let's help Him relax, take Him out for a drink.

God shrugged us off and muttered swear words at us.

There's no call for that, Lord. You don't need to cuss.

He thinks we're the Amazon delivery guy.

We don't have any money or anything to buy. 

But God doesn't listen, because God's gone away. 

We have no idea what those glassy eyes say. 

So we search through His papers, bound up in old files.

We thought it would be easy, but there were piles and piles. 

His correspondences dating back hundreds of years 

(Which seemed a low number) with relatives and peers. 

But we didn't find anything and so we returned 

To find in our absence our house had been burned

To the ground with a message writ large in the dirt: 

"That's what you get, you—" then some unprintable words. 

We called the police but he never was found.

So we had a mock funeral and put a box in the ground 

That had nothing inside it except violence and sound. 

Then we dusted our hands and went out for a beer. 

We found Him there tending the bar. In sheer 

Disbelief and anxiety, He made a run for the door. 

He shouted expletives while we wrestled Him to the floor.

But He slipped through our clutches and sprinted away.

He's out there; we know it. And maybe, some day, 

When He's made some mistakes, had some learning experiences, 

He'll learn to look past our initial appearances 

And give us a chance to be with Him again. 

It would be nice to invite Him for dinner and then

We could look back and laugh at this together, and cry. 

Then we'd call the police. He has a DUI.