The middle eye

The cricket had  fallen  silent for two days near the park trees. I now hear it back again, this time like the creaking of a tree wood in the wind. On the passing tree I see a big black ant making its appearance for the first time.In the next rounds of walk I look for it.

Actually I  look for it ,till it became an obsession with my eyes, heavy with uveitis, an inflammation of the middle eye. The ant looked like having the powers to control my pain center.

Back home I keep looking for music to soothe my eye heavy with uveitis. A song about a bird in sky may soothe  pain.

Everything looked whirring as I got up from the computer. Like a bird swirling in the sky. I need  words to keep me steady in the sky. From floating away. From fear of not seeing.  Towards beauty and music.

Stonehenge chairs and laburnums with no dogs

In the morning I saw tall towers of white plastic chairs stacked on the park grass like they were Stonehenge.There had been a public meeting in the park  the day before. Hence Stonehenge.

A bunch of ladies occupied my grass for a new yoga class of ladies. The ladies were persuading others in the park to go their yoga way. A movement, they say is spreading across the country towards fitness. Is going barefoot on dew grass fitness?  Of course not, but where do I get my grass thoughts from?

If you have grass you have Stonehenge. Consider walking through stacks of plastic chairs as if they were history’s rocks. I wish I could capture the figures of the yoga ladies against the rising sun. But I can’t do so because I have to take their permission.But I need not take the permission of the sun and nothing prevents me from capturing him over their figures. Still, it is not polite. Besides,they were not all that poetry. Sun of course is poetry with or without exercising ladies.

The tree I pat on every day is a laburnum. I hadn’t noticed this till  I raised my head and looked into its eyes. I saw a new bunch of yellow flowers like a beehive hanging from a sparsely leaved tree. The leaves were not many and the flowers simply burst in splendor against a blue sky. Their plenitude was as if  they were the leaves and the leaves were flowers.Yellow leaves and green flowers.The way they overran the leaves. In my last picture there were dogs under the laburnum. In it  the dogs sat  unmindful of the new flowers.

The Word Wild Life lady is telling on the television to save power.The  fiery lady who had recently lost her man to the stars. He died pointing the brightest stars of this season to daughter.  Our own earth hour is here. The lights will go off promptly. Remember, our  earth hours are not many.

Old jetties

Old jetties are useful too. For the old poets to agonize about. Especially with the cameras they hold against their feet, the sea lapping up against them as if the ships still call from the blue seas. Actually old jetties are useful for the underwear ads they carry on them.

Old jetties are useful for the clincher line of the old poet,looking for the ironies of a spent life. For the fine epigrams they make , when their dead end is reached and no new words crop up in the night.


Mom wanted our birthday celebrated according to the moon in calendar. We would wake while it is still dark before the resident cuckoo gets up
and spread mom’s soft flour paste on our bodies to be ready for bath.

Mom would dance a camphor flame around us for our long expectancy. Later in school we would be proud distributing our hard boiled toffees.God what lovely sounds they made .As the kids would hit their tongues with them,tongues hit roofs of their mouths.

These days our mom is not there to remember our lunar birthday.The calendar page flips on a wall ,sharp at twelve of midnight clock. We lose count of how many flips.

Thief in the street

When all the others were asleep in their anonymity ,mom and I were one with a burglar in street who was breaking a hole in wall.

Her voice bored a hole in night across sleep’s heavy silence to the thief who broke sounds in our sleeps waking our fears.

Mother and thief are now holes in a vast silence of their nights. We are waiting to be our holes.