Gardens are opaque
Like glass houses in snow-sleet
Sheltered, spare and neat
The queen bee stood still
In the stinging air of night
The drones hum at work
Skinny blades of grass
Cut into sheer silken stream
Let the soiree begin
Red roofed house: mossy
Algae swim at a puddle’s edge
Grey reflections of Time
Skyline pastoral
I blink once twice thrice and shut
My eyes from the Sun
Deep dark wooded land
Glittering in ashen glow
Devoured by flames
Monday, December 5, 2011
Monday, October 31, 2011
The Radcliffe Line
“The tea is ready, beta. Drink it while it’s hot, achcha. Oh, I forgot to tell you, today is the day!”
“Today is the day for what?” said my bewildered son, Satyajit as he skimmed the newspaper with a wary eye.
“Today is the day for my interview! That journalist woman, what was her name….Jessica something is going to ask me questions about the partition. I already told her, “Listen baba I am ancient, and I am stupid. Some people have gone so far as to say I have Alzheimer’s. What am I to do? My memories are distorted, I might end up making up things about the partition”, that’s what I told her. But her voice over the telephone was all smiles. She said, “Don’t worry, auntie, stories are what I want. I am compiling data from a very big sample, so it doesn’t matter if you exaggerate here and there.” I was certainly pleased with this girl, impressed even, I tell you.”
“Bhalo theko, Ma. I’m sure you’ll have fun recounting your childhood to a starry-eyed stranger.”
My darling son kissed me quickly on the forehead before leaving through the front door, briefcase firmly in hand. He was a bit of a cynic, Satyajit, but who wasn’t these days?
I finished my breakfast and bath and waited in the living room in a spotless white shari. The ticking of the clock suddenly seemed louder than usual, and the only sound in my living-room. I looked at my gold watch- fifteen minutes before the interview. The ticking persisted, and made me feel very uneasy for some reason.
Then I remembered.
It was my heart that was ticking fit to burst that awfully cold day in August, 1947.
I must have been seven, at most eight years old. I was shivering in my dowdy coat, as my heart continued beating like a time-bomb in the quiet of my dada’s room. I was waiting on him and it seemed to me then that the ticking of the clock masked the sound of his breathing. Perhaps, in truth his breathing had become shallow and pale, like his body.
He had been ill two weeks now. Ever since the Radcliffe Line was announced, his health had been deteriorating like the melting of an ice-cube. Mama had left me to care for him, while she scoured the garbage dumps for vegetables that weren’t completely rotten. When she could not find sufficient left-overs she would wander the lonely streets, begging for money or food. She took what she was offered; and beat her shriveled chest in agony when she was came home empty-handed.
This was of course in those hard, poverty-ridden days of the Partition. News of bloodbaths and riots frequently floated in and out of our threadbare household, but we had immediate troubles of our own.
Bengal had sampled the first tang of doubt sometime around June, when rumors of a second split were making the rounds. Our Muslim friend Muzaffer Bhaiyya, jute-mill worker by day and intellectual by night was educating us on the future of Hindustan. I remember sitting quietly in the corner, while he enunciated with the clarity of an English babu, that British India had run its course. “These Englishmen will have to go, Sharat, they will have to,” he kept repeating to my father. But Muzaffer Bhaiyya had also warned the room at large that the storm was coming. We all thought he was a bit senile. Oh, how wrong we were!
Within a month, the government had secretly set the mood for a series of communal riots that were to be the bloodiest Hindustan stood witness to. Dada had come running into the house one day, his eyes popping. He was shouting like a madman that his factory had been shut down. You see, there was no jute to process. East Bengal’s new policies would not permit jute to be imported by our jute-mills. Dada’s eyes leaked uncontrollably and I was never more afraid of him. He clutched me by the arms, drew me to him and spat in my face that I was never to speak to Muzaffer Bhaiyya or his son again. My mother had begun to cry as well, and I remember running out of the room and hiding in our backyard with our cat, Billi.
The day Dada was terminally ill, Mama did not come home. I was severely anxious about Dada’s health but what could I do? I applied a damp cloth over his forehead and waited. I must have dozed off but when I woke up it was pitch dark and there was a terrible scuffle in the backyard and I thought I heard Billi mewing. I ran to the back-door but opened it noiselessly, fear drumming in my throat. But I had forgotten to turn off the lights. The soft candle-light snaked out into the backyard throwing a small boy’s figure into sharp relief. It was Muzaffer Bhaiyya’s son. He stood stock-still without speaking. He held a bloody scythe in one hand and the corpse of my beloved Billi in the other. I paused for a minute, expecting some reaction. He just stood there, prepared to attack. I swiftly shut the door and bolted the lock. As I heard his footsteps sprinting among the bushes, I sighed in relief.
I shed uncountable tears for many people in the weeks to come. Mama and Billi had been the first to go, and their deaths had been the hardest to bear. But time does heal wounds, and Dada remained with me for a long long time. He got better and took up a job as a government census-taker.
The doorbell. I had to get that. Now how had these tears tricked their way into my lap?
I opened the door and said, “Hello Jessica beti. Ready to hear my story?”
“Today is the day for what?” said my bewildered son, Satyajit as he skimmed the newspaper with a wary eye.
“Today is the day for my interview! That journalist woman, what was her name….Jessica something is going to ask me questions about the partition. I already told her, “Listen baba I am ancient, and I am stupid. Some people have gone so far as to say I have Alzheimer’s. What am I to do? My memories are distorted, I might end up making up things about the partition”, that’s what I told her. But her voice over the telephone was all smiles. She said, “Don’t worry, auntie, stories are what I want. I am compiling data from a very big sample, so it doesn’t matter if you exaggerate here and there.” I was certainly pleased with this girl, impressed even, I tell you.”
“Bhalo theko, Ma. I’m sure you’ll have fun recounting your childhood to a starry-eyed stranger.”
My darling son kissed me quickly on the forehead before leaving through the front door, briefcase firmly in hand. He was a bit of a cynic, Satyajit, but who wasn’t these days?
I finished my breakfast and bath and waited in the living room in a spotless white shari. The ticking of the clock suddenly seemed louder than usual, and the only sound in my living-room. I looked at my gold watch- fifteen minutes before the interview. The ticking persisted, and made me feel very uneasy for some reason.
Then I remembered.
It was my heart that was ticking fit to burst that awfully cold day in August, 1947.
I must have been seven, at most eight years old. I was shivering in my dowdy coat, as my heart continued beating like a time-bomb in the quiet of my dada’s room. I was waiting on him and it seemed to me then that the ticking of the clock masked the sound of his breathing. Perhaps, in truth his breathing had become shallow and pale, like his body.
He had been ill two weeks now. Ever since the Radcliffe Line was announced, his health had been deteriorating like the melting of an ice-cube. Mama had left me to care for him, while she scoured the garbage dumps for vegetables that weren’t completely rotten. When she could not find sufficient left-overs she would wander the lonely streets, begging for money or food. She took what she was offered; and beat her shriveled chest in agony when she was came home empty-handed.
This was of course in those hard, poverty-ridden days of the Partition. News of bloodbaths and riots frequently floated in and out of our threadbare household, but we had immediate troubles of our own.
Bengal had sampled the first tang of doubt sometime around June, when rumors of a second split were making the rounds. Our Muslim friend Muzaffer Bhaiyya, jute-mill worker by day and intellectual by night was educating us on the future of Hindustan. I remember sitting quietly in the corner, while he enunciated with the clarity of an English babu, that British India had run its course. “These Englishmen will have to go, Sharat, they will have to,” he kept repeating to my father. But Muzaffer Bhaiyya had also warned the room at large that the storm was coming. We all thought he was a bit senile. Oh, how wrong we were!
Within a month, the government had secretly set the mood for a series of communal riots that were to be the bloodiest Hindustan stood witness to. Dada had come running into the house one day, his eyes popping. He was shouting like a madman that his factory had been shut down. You see, there was no jute to process. East Bengal’s new policies would not permit jute to be imported by our jute-mills. Dada’s eyes leaked uncontrollably and I was never more afraid of him. He clutched me by the arms, drew me to him and spat in my face that I was never to speak to Muzaffer Bhaiyya or his son again. My mother had begun to cry as well, and I remember running out of the room and hiding in our backyard with our cat, Billi.
The day Dada was terminally ill, Mama did not come home. I was severely anxious about Dada’s health but what could I do? I applied a damp cloth over his forehead and waited. I must have dozed off but when I woke up it was pitch dark and there was a terrible scuffle in the backyard and I thought I heard Billi mewing. I ran to the back-door but opened it noiselessly, fear drumming in my throat. But I had forgotten to turn off the lights. The soft candle-light snaked out into the backyard throwing a small boy’s figure into sharp relief. It was Muzaffer Bhaiyya’s son. He stood stock-still without speaking. He held a bloody scythe in one hand and the corpse of my beloved Billi in the other. I paused for a minute, expecting some reaction. He just stood there, prepared to attack. I swiftly shut the door and bolted the lock. As I heard his footsteps sprinting among the bushes, I sighed in relief.
I shed uncountable tears for many people in the weeks to come. Mama and Billi had been the first to go, and their deaths had been the hardest to bear. But time does heal wounds, and Dada remained with me for a long long time. He got better and took up a job as a government census-taker.
The doorbell. I had to get that. Now how had these tears tricked their way into my lap?
I opened the door and said, “Hello Jessica beti. Ready to hear my story?”
Friday, August 26, 2011
One Dog, Two Lovers
The dog barked. Incessantly. His barks grated on my overwrought nerves. He was a scruffy little dog with shaggy hair falling all over his face and into his eyes. Brown and white. I was trying to tell the girl something but his barks kept distracting me.
She leaned closer too, in the long winding cobblestone street, to make out what I was saying. I could picture us mentally as we stood together. Someone would have liked to click a picture of us- exactly like that- her loose black hair falling forward to make her tiny white ear visible, and my curly hair masking my face, both of us in rectangular black coats and regular walking shoes.
I was telling her that I wanted to own that street. In all its rain-splattered gravelly glory. I could set up a small tea-stall at the edge- very basic- with sticks gored into the ground to hold up a red cloth canopy-roof. And little tumblers made of glass to serve the sweet tea in. I’d keep a small stove and a large bucket of water. The water would boil all day long, because everyone would want to savor my tea. And she could hand the tea to my numerous customers with a ready smile- her teeth making a perfect semi circle as her eyes danced a girly dance.
When she heard this dream of mine she laughed suddenly, but softly. Her stomach heaved and her eyes danced the girly dance.
“Okay” she said, “okay, we’ll do it. But don’t you take off that overcoat; you look so sexy in it.”
She leaned closer too, in the long winding cobblestone street, to make out what I was saying. I could picture us mentally as we stood together. Someone would have liked to click a picture of us- exactly like that- her loose black hair falling forward to make her tiny white ear visible, and my curly hair masking my face, both of us in rectangular black coats and regular walking shoes.
I was telling her that I wanted to own that street. In all its rain-splattered gravelly glory. I could set up a small tea-stall at the edge- very basic- with sticks gored into the ground to hold up a red cloth canopy-roof. And little tumblers made of glass to serve the sweet tea in. I’d keep a small stove and a large bucket of water. The water would boil all day long, because everyone would want to savor my tea. And she could hand the tea to my numerous customers with a ready smile- her teeth making a perfect semi circle as her eyes danced a girly dance.
When she heard this dream of mine she laughed suddenly, but softly. Her stomach heaved and her eyes danced the girly dance.
“Okay” she said, “okay, we’ll do it. But don’t you take off that overcoat; you look so sexy in it.”
Monday, May 30, 2011
A Summer Post for the Painfully Decorative
Summer only has a couple weeks worth of life left in her, before she wilts like a fruity flower in heat. So you gotta give her a chance. Show her what you’ve got. And what is it that harbors in the recesses of your bottomless closet? The right answer is jumpsuits, mini-dresses, maxis, bell-bottoms, high waist shorts and/or skirts and generally ill-fitted flowy things. Everything else is wrong. And I’m not the one dictating terms here; the fashion frat is shouting it from the rooftops and runways of New York and Paris! To clock all things most beloved to the current Parisian heart, I’ve made a list. This is the summer “it” list; it is very jolly, it really
is.
1. 70s hippie glamour makes a colossal comeback this year. Think flared pants tied or belted-up mid-torso, think gypsy dresses, think chunky jewellery. Personally, I think one of the biggest gifts ever (accidentally) made to mankind was Woodstock. Musicians, movie-makers, playwrights, beer pubs, discos and now fashion designers all owe it their life’s savings. They visit and revisit this historic event, tweak and tussle about with it, and “revive” it in a contemporary light until they’re sore. And so it is, that 70s shimmer and shine is back with a “contemporary twist” *yawn*
2. Overheard at a fashion event: a pair of black “kitty heels” right off of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s was reported stolen by a runway model. Okay maybe I’m exaggerating. Detailed perusal of said reports show that the shoes weren’t stolen, merely “borrowed”. What are kitty heels? They’re a cross between high heels and flats. With a dainty 2 inch pencil heel, it’s for those of you who believe in the saying “nothing lost, nothing gained” For the sacrificial goats in you, kitty heels are the thing.
3. But the real dead weight holding us all prisoners to summer’s ire are the clogs. Yes you heard right. Not the clogs of dirt in your sink or the clogs of hair in your sewage pipes. The clogs we’re talking about are a type of shoe. When Platforms took a tour of Holland, it made it with a couple of undisclosed shoes and came back with children named Clogs. Clogs aren’t comfortable. They aren’t exactly what you’d call divaesque. Obviously we all know that the only things truly divaesque are stilettos and disco-balls. But clogs have the one thing- they are deconstructionist, or atleast appear to be. The perfect inversion of fashionable footwear, the clogs give even skinny sky-scraper girls a complex. I mean walking tall is one thing, but looking like a giant is still a no-no in these parts. They add atleast 6 inches to your height, while leaving you looking like a tottering dummy. Wooden, flat, unimaginative and grand-motherly (although a single grandmother wouldn’t be spotted dead wearing them; they probably prefer Crocs) these are strictly for the blind-lovers of “haute-couture”.
4. To make up for the heaviness of Clogs, feather-light see-through numbers are making the rounds. Sheer blouses in honeysuckle, lavender and oceanic pastels are very much in. I suppose they make one feel…….delicate. Everybody’s wearing it, even the paunchy bunch.
Everything else this season rings mellow and inconspicuous. Or maybe just repetitive. If you’re looking for something marginally new and safe, I’d suggest the jumpsuits. Mix it up with some good old earth (read dirt) and have a ball with this semi-sporty outfit. No seriously, I’d really like a jumpsuit. Commes des Garcons, make me one? Oh never mind, they’re probably too busy making their models look like starved schoolboys (specifically hailing from idyllic English country schools).
Thursday, May 26, 2011
EARTH OCEAN SKY
I sat in the hollow
Of a grassy cup of earth
Grass so thick, and longish
Blowing like a brunette’s hair
Against the prairie breeze.
I saw one gull
White against an off-white sky
Keeling like a feathery ship
Against a heavy sea-tide
Dancing feathers haloed
In sunlight’s prism.
I shut my eyes tight
And heard an eerie quiet
The quietness of sound
And red and black alternating
I opened my eyes
To this beautiful dream
Again.
So never let me go.
Of a grassy cup of earth
Grass so thick, and longish
Blowing like a brunette’s hair
Against the prairie breeze.
I saw one gull
White against an off-white sky
Keeling like a feathery ship
Against a heavy sea-tide
Dancing feathers haloed
In sunlight’s prism.
I shut my eyes tight
And heard an eerie quiet
The quietness of sound
And red and black alternating
I opened my eyes
To this beautiful dream
Again.
So never let me go.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Anchor
Sparse like rust
Crumbling like dust
From your fingertips
Dripping from your hair
Vacuumed like particles
Running a race
Drained like oil
Filtered through mesh
Picked like husk
Picked like louse
Crushed or burnt away.
Now you can stay
Gagged and tied
Blinders on
Like you always were
Like you want to stay.
Crumbling like dust
From your fingertips
Dripping from your hair
Vacuumed like particles
Running a race
Drained like oil
Filtered through mesh
Picked like husk
Picked like louse
Crushed or burnt away.
Now you can stay
Gagged and tied
Blinders on
Like you always were
Like you want to stay.
Friday, March 18, 2011
HOODIE
Make me warm in the dark
I look up stars glittering high up
In a blackish night sky face of day
That looms close and alien and warm
Large surrounding rounded all around
Round
Hold my breath as I nuzzle against your t-shirt
Black forms just like ants small
Huddle in your safe black warmth
The world is a bubble
I look up stars glittering high up
In a blackish night sky face of day
That looms close and alien and warm
Large surrounding rounded all around
Round
Hold my breath as I nuzzle against your t-shirt
Black forms just like ants small
Huddle in your safe black warmth
The world is a bubble
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Youre So Pretty!
Youre so pretty I can’t express
Sometimes
You were an ugly baby
I saw the photos
You looked so silly and scared
Then
You were foolish a kid
I thought you looked it
You used to smile simply
Because they told you “Say cheese!”
You looked just like the rest
Only more pitiful
Soaked puppy, you!
But you were thinner then
In a sorrowful frameless way
The bones were still parleying
Which way we grow?
So then
You made up your mind
About what you Like
Like movies and books and music
That are beautiful
And make you beautiful
Made you beautiful
Like you are, now
Perfect and shrouded
Protected
I can’t touch you.
Sometimes
You were an ugly baby
I saw the photos
You looked so silly and scared
Then
You were foolish a kid
I thought you looked it
You used to smile simply
Because they told you “Say cheese!”
You looked just like the rest
Only more pitiful
Soaked puppy, you!
But you were thinner then
In a sorrowful frameless way
The bones were still parleying
Which way we grow?
So then
You made up your mind
About what you Like
Like movies and books and music
That are beautiful
And make you beautiful
Made you beautiful
Like you are, now
Perfect and shrouded
Protected
I can’t touch you.
POEM
Poem plonks like
A pebble
Plonk plonk plink
Then- cascade of gravelly stones
Bigger than pebbles, noisier too
The ocean is Mind
It ripples and bulges
Or writhes in convolutions
Of snakes in the water
Or breathes silence
A pebble
Plonk plonk plink
Then- cascade of gravelly stones
Bigger than pebbles, noisier too
The ocean is Mind
It ripples and bulges
Or writhes in convolutions
Of snakes in the water
Or breathes silence
Why can’t we be sacred
In our globed conversations
Can’t we be left to ourselves
Self to self
Can’t we shut out for a second
The usual drone buzz in
And out of everywhere
We do we feel
We touch fingertips
But only a moment
Like puny threads in vastness
We forget we fret
We let stray winds undrive us
We forget
Mutual promises unsaid
Better for once
Than the familiarity of everydayness
Better a polaroid
Than rubbing shoulders in milling mess
(I liked E E Cummings)
In our globed conversations
Can’t we be left to ourselves
Self to self
Can’t we shut out for a second
The usual drone buzz in
And out of everywhere
We do we feel
We touch fingertips
But only a moment
Like puny threads in vastness
We forget we fret
We let stray winds undrive us
We forget
Mutual promises unsaid
Better for once
Than the familiarity of everydayness
Better a polaroid
Than rubbing shoulders in milling mess
(I liked E E Cummings)
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
PURPLE FOX
Yesterday he morphed
And I saw him turning
Into a flashy purple fox
His edges gleamed
And adjusted themselves
Like graphic sketches
But thick and white.
Yesterday his black hair
Turned sleek and scarred
And a violet shade
His lovely bow legs
Fell to the ground
And he stretched on all fours.
Yesterday the bones
On his face grew deep
Alongside his cheeks
Before they turned black
Deepened darkened
And sucked themselves away.
Yesterday he curved
Low and rigid
Cutting the wind
As he crouched to lunge
And prepared to sprint away
From the pages of this poem.
And I saw him turning
Into a flashy purple fox
His edges gleamed
And adjusted themselves
Like graphic sketches
But thick and white.
Yesterday his black hair
Turned sleek and scarred
And a violet shade
His lovely bow legs
Fell to the ground
And he stretched on all fours.
Yesterday the bones
On his face grew deep
Alongside his cheeks
Before they turned black
Deepened darkened
And sucked themselves away.
Yesterday he curved
Low and rigid
Cutting the wind
As he crouched to lunge
And prepared to sprint away
From the pages of this poem.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
MANY, TOO MANY
Grids of roads of streets of lines
Of dots of points of atoms of matter
Of dust and soot and stone and vapour
Heads of figures peopling everywhere
Talk of this talk of that talk of the universe
Small talk serious talk chants and prayers
Gossip sighs street talk and smiles
These ears snatch tit-bits from left and right
Waves upon waves of sound pearing thought
Needles sharp or softly wombed words
Listen and listen
Ocean of ideas well and sleep
Clogging or clearing what it is still too early to say
Of dots of points of atoms of matter
Of dust and soot and stone and vapour
Heads of figures peopling everywhere
Talk of this talk of that talk of the universe
Small talk serious talk chants and prayers
Gossip sighs street talk and smiles
These ears snatch tit-bits from left and right
Waves upon waves of sound pearing thought
Needles sharp or softly wombed words
Listen and listen
Ocean of ideas well and sleep
Clogging or clearing what it is still too early to say
SPACE
I need a blank sheet of a room
Studio rectangular and neat
No clothes no bed no nothing
Quietness of whitest white
And a drop of sucked black ink
Studio rectangular and neat
No clothes no bed no nothing
Quietness of whitest white
And a drop of sucked black ink
Friday, January 28, 2011
Street Car Light City
For anyone who ever felt confused restless angry intimidated strange or lonesome.
And for anyone who loved the Beat Generation.
Whirlwinding it down alleys and high-streets and towns and cities
With cheap beer and little swigs of whiskey and gulping and smacking
And so many cigarettes sucked on and chucked in gutters and side-streets
We ran like neon lights zipping through our bellies and body we felt it
Cocking our heads jerking gagging spitting shaking epileptic gone bonkers
And staring largely at whizzing passing shakes of spherical light balls
That looked like Mother Earth shimmery awesome wild so beautiful
And we jumped up and down raising toasts to the striking sky red indigo
In our thin high voices gone and sweet kiddy and pure to the startling shine
That buzzed our ears and blurred our eyes into pinpricks of warmth and honey
We breathed long and hard and heavy we grew restless like monkeys
Scratched our snouts and tapped our concussed beat heads some few times
Then off onto another glowing train of thought that grew like a train in a tunnel
Racketing it down monstrously cracking down on our brains fast and staccato
Until it held us and we held on to it hobos on the last ride out of hell
We found soul and strength love and the meaning of life wrapping us up
Tortilla chipped in the bacon of mother and humanity feathered in shelter
We closed our eyes we went off to sleep in a nanosecond or a lifetime or death
And for anyone who loved the Beat Generation.
Whirlwinding it down alleys and high-streets and towns and cities
With cheap beer and little swigs of whiskey and gulping and smacking
And so many cigarettes sucked on and chucked in gutters and side-streets
We ran like neon lights zipping through our bellies and body we felt it
Cocking our heads jerking gagging spitting shaking epileptic gone bonkers
And staring largely at whizzing passing shakes of spherical light balls
That looked like Mother Earth shimmery awesome wild so beautiful
And we jumped up and down raising toasts to the striking sky red indigo
In our thin high voices gone and sweet kiddy and pure to the startling shine
That buzzed our ears and blurred our eyes into pinpricks of warmth and honey
We breathed long and hard and heavy we grew restless like monkeys
Scratched our snouts and tapped our concussed beat heads some few times
Then off onto another glowing train of thought that grew like a train in a tunnel
Racketing it down monstrously cracking down on our brains fast and staccato
Until it held us and we held on to it hobos on the last ride out of hell
We found soul and strength love and the meaning of life wrapping us up
Tortilla chipped in the bacon of mother and humanity feathered in shelter
We closed our eyes we went off to sleep in a nanosecond or a lifetime or death
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Animal
Yes I want to be this animal. Twisting my neck around a truck of tree and curling my legs around my head. I want to be a real live monkey.I want the skin stretching against my bones so I can jump around and feel young and light and free.
THE LOTUS DREAMER
A stablehand, a stable-boy,
He walked home smelling of horses,
He wore smears of dung on his hands and face.
As he walked, he shuffled and stared,
But the lake was shiftless silent still.
He sighed all the way home.
He dreamt of softness and of touch,
He nestled beside the scratchy hay,
When he woke up- another day;
He’d listen to the horses neigh,
He’d bang and bustle about with buckets
Of mush and fodder that the horses fed;
He’d bend and split his tailbone.
He was the stable-boy with the sturdy hand.
Coldness invigorated his belly today,
Today would never diminish to yesterday,
He would see the flowers today.
The lake would people with lotus blossom,
And their pink petals would frailly dance;
And I will rest my head there,
And my neck against the leafiness ,
And the water will cool my form,
And wash away my stains and smell;
And I will float lazily on smooth as stone
As I fall into dreams of standstill time.
He walked home smelling of horses,
He wore smears of dung on his hands and face.
As he walked, he shuffled and stared,
But the lake was shiftless silent still.
He sighed all the way home.
He dreamt of softness and of touch,
He nestled beside the scratchy hay,
When he woke up- another day;
He’d listen to the horses neigh,
He’d bang and bustle about with buckets
Of mush and fodder that the horses fed;
He’d bend and split his tailbone.
He was the stable-boy with the sturdy hand.
Coldness invigorated his belly today,
Today would never diminish to yesterday,
He would see the flowers today.
The lake would people with lotus blossom,
And their pink petals would frailly dance;
And I will rest my head there,
And my neck against the leafiness ,
And the water will cool my form,
And wash away my stains and smell;
And I will float lazily on smooth as stone
As I fall into dreams of standstill time.
COATLICUE
Seething in serpent’s skirt and necklace of hearts
She walks unseen in the shadow of Tenochtitlan;
Queen of the red earth, her presence is everywhere.
She stands watch over the horde of humans
Ascending the temple born to feed her hunger,
Born out of trembling arms and steady mouths.
“Oh Divine Goddess of Birth and Death,
We unleash the blood from our tongues
For you have let your own blood run
Till your body ran dry and you were reborn.”
“We offer you a kin of flesh and blood,
Tear her with your claws and be contented.
Our farmer hands have threshed the corn
Day and night we have worked to eat
But only you can hold the blow of disaster.”
“We are the servants of you the Gods,
Bowing to the children of Ometecuhtli,
For you are the predeterminers of Destiny.”
She watches silently their gloried ritual,
She toasts to her fellows from the Pantheon.
These that clung to her heavy breasts at first,
Nourished and replenished by her flowing milk,
Now kneel in deference to her duality,
Now prostrate in full surrender to the deity
Who consumes their bodies and wears their skin.
She walks unseen in the shadow of Tenochtitlan;
Queen of the red earth, her presence is everywhere.
She stands watch over the horde of humans
Ascending the temple born to feed her hunger,
Born out of trembling arms and steady mouths.
“Oh Divine Goddess of Birth and Death,
We unleash the blood from our tongues
For you have let your own blood run
Till your body ran dry and you were reborn.”
“We offer you a kin of flesh and blood,
Tear her with your claws and be contented.
Our farmer hands have threshed the corn
Day and night we have worked to eat
But only you can hold the blow of disaster.”
“We are the servants of you the Gods,
Bowing to the children of Ometecuhtli,
For you are the predeterminers of Destiny.”
She watches silently their gloried ritual,
She toasts to her fellows from the Pantheon.
These that clung to her heavy breasts at first,
Nourished and replenished by her flowing milk,
Now kneel in deference to her duality,
Now prostrate in full surrender to the deity
Who consumes their bodies and wears their skin.
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