There was heaven in those eyes
and earth beneath me was no longer
earth but liquid fire

AN EPISTLE TO THE BURNING MAVERICK EMO

4:30 A.M. Friday, 14th September, 2007


The burning heart in the deeply dark night lonely burning
sees only the darkest vision of its being slowly turning,

turning into a silent scraping at the shut doors of life returning
all claims of blood and soul to the lonely heart lonely burning.

You are that other one who comes ever silent.

You have spoken of some singular sense,
speaking also of sense shutters shuttering
all songs seeking safe sibilation
but all the more strangely silent, waiting

waiting, as more others would say,
for a wan, very-other-like, wasted way
of the weakened world always dying
to open up, shore up its death-songs,

in death or in life burning,
burning and turning,
and returning.

To you,

our loved eye,
our hated heart,
naked heart, lonely soul
only soul burning,

to you I remit this epistle -

this is my ever-strengthening vision
of most ends burning.

UNKNOWABLE LINES

I see everything by the twilight's last glimpsing of songs
and moons and dusks and long abated blissful nights
that were once heavenly but are now faded
into knowable oblivion - and I wait for more,

more fulfilling visions of darkly humming bridges
and rivers at sundowns and sunrises.

Everything is soft and pliant here
as in a memory-charm
created to bamboozle urgently beating fists
upon doors that do not open, never open at all,
except for specifically shrouded blue-moon nights.

Many generations have passed into known history.
Many hours and cruxes-in-time so simplified
have watched us grow together, my loved land.

Nearly a hundred years in wakefulness have I floundered
in wide open dualised arms, but still,
still I do not know your names, your eyes and your lives,
I, living engendered, vastly dismembered, mostly endangered.

Many knowing moments of iron-clad worship
at evenings during the time-goddess's mad dance
across courtyards I remember even now
as sad and great and as vibrant in untimely time
as a single Bloody Mary.

And of songs sung from doors to windows
fluttering as sexist statements from pillars to posts
and empty roads in a curfewed dusk
with that lonely bag of rice standing all alone by itself,
waiting for a liberator, a saviour and his hands
that are the hands of a healer.

What do I gather here - nothing
except only knowledge of things to come
and things that have been
and may be those that will rain down again,
swift and soft and hardening then as rocks
that are borne so caringly, sparingly
by the fertile womb of confusion.

My land in dreams and in knowing discombobulation,
nice words long ones and extremely religious ones these are,
the ones that I curse onto your newest life, your ancient names
and your twisted, ever turning, always meticulously burning
surprisingly maturing visages that you hide.

Many leaves have faded as mortal butterflies
once out of the cocoon, ever fated to fly, ever hated
by everything that loves and longs indubitably
for timelessly sweet, saddening eyes.

Many songs have been sung, many copper bells
in significant hour-endings have been rung.
Many a nephilus has flown to heaven and back.

So many moments, immoment, graceful, have passed,
and nearly a hundred years as well,
but still I do not know your names,
nor you and your lives.

POEMS FROM MY FIRST PUBLICATION THANKS TO PROFESSOR PURUSHOTTAM LAL - I CALL HIM EXCELLENT-AMONG-MEN-RED-MAHA-TEACHER

THE BIOGRAPHY OF A SONG LEFT WOUNDED

The river made a circuit of the day,
the sound of birds, beasts and clashing cymbals
the giving way of breaths to a beggar called Life
then the flowers of humanizing rain
the love of the Lord, the pleasure of pain.

But there are some trees
standing as yet in darkened orchards -
Orchards made when Eden was young,
before the gates closed forever with a fiery clang.
These trees even now live, grow and flower;
these trees - away from the unhappy hour.

We were talking aloud when I became the river.
Across my huge, bony, wrecked heart
wreaking havoc on my senses
and yours,
I flowed about.
And across this land of many hued dreams
This land of daya, of damyata, of vairagya and of santih
I flowed away, floated away
Till all fallen ones began an earnest prayer;
And I, with daya, entered the waterpot of the one who never came back.

The yellow stretching lines and in the middle
a blinding fire.
All the while a busy flurry of patterns
turning into figures slowly, slowly
and then the dance of the nine triangles.

In the hurtling dance came the colours
In red came knowledge
In yellow came darkness, silence, calm and all things unknown
together fused to make an Eye, all-seeing, all-discerning
In the gardens, the bursting of senses and of light -
And all the while,
into the vast endless Sea
I, the river never born, never made,
Ever Living -
ran into in mute delight.

IN THE HOUSE NEXT DOOR

In this room there is a single window
which looks out on a huge garden
which has no flowers to possess
no roses to love
and be hated for.

In the house next door
they are having a party.
In the house next door,
someone’s come visiting
with lots of laughter and good old wine.
They have forgotten all about me
this room and this window calling out to life
but life does not recall it.

In the house next door,
they are making hay
while there is still sunshine
and laughter
and coffee with fruit cake
They are not aware
that someone walks outside
waiting for a glimpse
of the merry window.

The garden is silent in the evening calm
while cars sit gleaming on the tarmac
between the houses and the road
the garden meditates
on what would be the best way
to feel silent and at peace.

In the house next door
they who are having the party
have forgotten this room of a window.
In the house next door
they are busy busying themselves
over flowers and place settings
and mellowed mulled wine
and some tea of course
I do not care
and neither does the garden, silent and meditative.
For to be lost is to be at peace with everything.

TO BOROBOKRO – IT DOES NOT HAVE A SEA

Ancient coins, ancient fishes
ancient currents that overflow
broken bridges, only waiting
for the queen with a sword
who never came back.

Twisting turning knots and boats
pullulating heart streaming skies
sun and moon and tears of dew
widows beating paper breasts
singing loudly singsong voices
Bring home the children, river wise

Who knows how the river breathes –
in ones or twos or regular ham-sah.
Someone anxious for a child
ate a floating dead banyan leaf
and sprang Borobokro from the spit.

Ancient river, bloodied banks
banks where grew the Third Species
theirs to love, theirs to hate
theirs to know and forget even
stories and legends of a grey woman -
one-eyed matron in the gods’ chamber
dancing Sapphic for a clutter of bones

Someone waits on the far-off bridge
that spans and shrouds you, cowering river.
And though it breaks its heart to do so
yet midnights are the time to love in peace
with moons above and you beneath.