Never thought one could travel back to hours ,days ,years, centuries ago ,so long back, so far into an old sky, after such a history of bodies wiped out. I am poet with the mankind’s memory I had inherited when I was an egg ,before dad had embraced a current of electricity coming from waters.
Wind and sun, they had memories. They blew in as ghosts of electricity. There would come tiny men in fog and hoop through spaces in time, with their ghost feet twisted back, their faces green masks of dance.
They would dance their eyebrows in history’s backward movements. Electricity would kill all to ghosts and they stared like street lamps in halos of moths on rainy nights embracing electricity, by volition. They lost bodies to fire and earth.
Now we are dead in every corpse and still alive like men in corpses. Memory remains as an electricity and ghosts walk their lonely walk in mornings searching for bodies.
(recalling the poem “Nostalgia ” by Billy Collins)
While we confront the red sandstone and colorful head-gears in snake coils we manage to hold still as if we are holding an oil lamp through a silky darkness of the desert .
The lamp sits before us with a warm bread that brightens up a dark inner palate and its yellow light colors the swirling dancer- A girl dancer swirls her marigold moment.
We hold still to avoid a camera shake with memory’s superimposition on girl. The drum beats its rhythm to catch the liquid girl to be like a lamp-lit pearl- drop under leaf . Night sheds ,in the winter of our time, a leaf slowly falling its bright yellow moment.
We hold still a shaking camera of night from a shaking body to catch a glimpse of the moment.
Like Frost ,I too am acquainted with the night on the sound- stopping, silence- raking watchman’s beat. I do not know why and I am not Frost but like Frost’s my watchman beats the sad road.
I have decided to fix this watchman in the Himalayas where stick beating watchmen descend from.The midnight road is hollow from below and side streets are dark and lonely and not deep.
The Himalayan watchmen are stick walkers of the night as old poets sit near machines of words.The old poets think watchmen are in their felt caps, sad in the inside roads of their lives.
(Inspired by the watchman in Robert Frost’s poem Acquainted with the night”)
Apart from lighting my bulb, electricity rules my adult mind as making my father weightless to sky.
When kids we had no electricity, just dimwit kerosene lamps hanging on the door frame.
When it rained there were halos of moths. The halos moved on the wall in shadows.
Then we had shadows gently touching wall lizards . Electricity finally came and removed
shadows except lizards.
The electric thoughts still play on my grownup head, especially the then grownup tongues clucking sadness at the child’s loss of father.
The Barua sea is my old sea by the stranger’s house where I had slept a night. It was a monotone that drowned my child’s fears.
The monotone kept coming through my adulthood and now that I am old I yearn for the monotone to drown my old fears.
At midnight my head hums with the old sea, it’s monotone coming on the tops of casuarina trees sweeping an old sky.
Whenever I have a head cold the old sea comes and drowns all my other sounds.
Now I have the wall flowers blooming in wall’s garden stretching to my roof that look like they have been smelling all my night in silence, emerging from stems of two – three leaves with twists like a fresh school girl would make in her Saturday drawing book for authenticity.
The air is not heavy with their fragrance but could have been into the late night when we had gone to sleep over them.Their fragrance spreads only after sleep and some time enters our sleep quietly as if they are blooming in late night’s garden.
They are wall flowers that can be smelt only in the higher reaches of the night.
The tree rises in a white sky of a memory, stripped of its leaves, through the kitchen’s vantage going back to several autumns of old memories, a point of view that looked an oncoming street.
The leaves lie in state in a mishmash of rain on the roof with many days of rain accumulated for the crows to explore and the sun to render a golden painting of a vanishing glory of rising.
We have to take the aid of poetry for memory with the leaves lost to the sky’s white wilderness. The trees make bland statements as if in dance. Meanings are merely extrapolated from memory.
Memories arise on words falling from trees. They fill our kitchens with nice vapors like rising suns sending down shafts of memory through the half-closed kitchen exhaust hole.