Since when it is not heap if all grains but one are taken away, one by one in order to prove the Sorites paradox and then you make a heap else where.
We have this heap of broken images of the glass pieces in the kaleidoscope where their shadows change colours as we rotate the scope in our fingers.
If we remove all but one glass splinter will it still be a heap of coloured shadows? At what point will the heap cease to exist when we dismantle kaleidoscope’s walls?
I have a notion that all this was not there with the sun and the clouds and the sky falling in the sea, in their fits of soporific existence with a wind sporadic from gaps in mountains.
The mountains were not there on the horizon. The horizon was only a notion from the dream embedded in an ancient mountain not there.
Notions are not there with the bodies gone.
Poet John who was Cage till then now lives outside the cage name. He has nothing to say but even then he is still saying that in his cage because it’s what poetry is about.
A fat lot of good poetry does to all of us. We will all be breaking free of our cages, sooner or later until the grass grows.
Women are found plucking the summer- brown grass so that it grows green on the other side. There are no cages in name on the other side only the residual poetry John Cage had left.
Incomprehensible like the classic art, the sea becomes a classic being sufficiently incomprehensible with fish that fisher woman sold purely by their incomprehension and that is what she said yesterday.
And now it is a poem of language.
Fish was my language on the day,
That a woman sold on the harbour, incomprehensible like this prose. I heard a languaging in my mind, incomprehensible like sea of fish.
The blind poet was not a prophet but was one birth- blind, trapped in the library .Unfortunately his mind’s eye could not read and let the hoary mouth explain the contents of a great message to the crowd.
So dense was the crowd everywhere so unwilling to receive a message .
Still the crowd swelled, still unwilling. We are helpless, You of message.
It was memento mori one dusty word, we would learn in someone’s dream to know how to be dust ,
in a church monument bowing respect before its marble dust ,
How to snug fit in skyless entombment,
& Held up for dust- to- dust comparison.
When the dust of the cow hoofs returns home the basil leaves may turn dust in mouth.
The sun climbs the neighbor’s coconut. It is time for some long dialogue in walk. Everything is such crisp and diamond cut.
The neighbour 's tiny moonlight's flowers have done nightly rounds of fragrance. They are now wilted smiles on a road.
The parijata tree had shed its flowers on earth ,their feet lifted to the air.
Your postprandial visions come a tad early for poems to appear on a green landscape in the leafy edges of summer’s bird-less sky.
You hallucinate a pail of water from a nearby sink well with silver streams falling to a crop like snakes of water flowing to earth’s music and lie in stupor on a string cot under the tree.
That is when visions undulate in camel humps flowing in miasmas of desert sands of wind as if wind is water reverse-flowing to the sky. The words then transform your wind to water.
In the midnight’s music the words transpose the night with a desert of sands in miasmas. The visions turn thin poems breaking as light streams from a tube, as words reverse flowing to the darkness below your room’s balcony.
The temptation is casual and sandy. Under the cashew tree you lie down on the hot river sand and let the sand singe your skin .Grains of sand that enter your holes where you dislodge by a blow of your breath. Blowing does not bring babies. But the sands are everywhere, They cannot be dislodged in some nooks.
Babies are afraid of your breath when you blow into their eyes. Babies shrink away from you ,from the talcum in the rolls of their baby fat, like the sand that had singed your bare naked skin and entered your nine holes. .
The cashews are yellow, fragrant and succulent. But when you eat them they catch your throat. The sand burns sin off your skin. The sun rains his heat on your love. You burn from its purity.
And the ripe cashews catch at your throat later. And you cannot dislodge sand from the nooks.
And then we see old b&w dads who stare from photo corners, in rolled up shirts, sizes of sons. Memories hit as pellets in faces. They make us dreamy in faces, about dads the present size of our sons.
Dad froze at son’s present size in vintage b&w college photos. He is not even sepia like crows. It is the words that connect us as pebbles in our men’s faces and dad’s face from old space.
Words are not sepia like crows just pebbles dropped in faces. They hurt us deeply like pellets.
A poet's diary 