Poetry | The World In A Year

Mysterious Paint

Walking through the bazaar of Kolkata, There appears a continuous splatter of some sludge generously daubed on the walls.

What is that mysterious brown substance thickly crusting the walls? Its texture so grating on the eyes it becomes sensation.

Would I could lean down, smell and then lick the monochromatic Jackson Pollock to divine its inner meaning but alas the human chains that tie me to the ground keep my tongue in my mouth.

The Storm

We arrived and with us the storm

The stage was set and though the dancers were cowering the bale began

We sat under the blue tattered awning the flies our only company

All was silent, in rapture to the gail

For the first singer the whole world was quiet

And when thoughts silhouetting arcs claimed the stage

It was with the brash confidence that curses only politicians and performers

I do not understand why we the most prideful of creatures

Can find ecstatic joy in our insignificance

But only in stark relief before that roaring tempest

Did I understand the thrilling heart of tranquility

Only then can I master unmastery

Titans We

Gently the soft and echoing sigh

Drew through the caverns of that bronchi

As one to wait and then unbridle

The drowsed muse of rest to break

To push through chasm of endless recital

And force from that nightly farce of ache

The lights come up the city's wake

Fortolds the day of endless make

The toile of this play so grand

That all mistake what truth must hold

And let the runnings go unplanned

Around the charnel house is bold

The fools of myth and legends old

Relay the way that is foretold

what ilk of imp to prompt their arm

And claim they know immortal truth

forget their words of subtle art

And flee from here to distant lands unhilled

Understandings

I sit and listen to the elderberry song

The chilling cords of a chant elicit a rare but true chill

Their voices weaving sweet melody through the fire

But can the blade ever correct its cut through music?

Does the weave still bear patterns of twenty shuttles back?

Does the philosophy really matter?

The music reaches the crescendo, a timeless moment devoid of all, in ecstasy

Through harmony we can heal

But if that chorus ever comes

Could our cracked lips part to drink?

Or would the hollow cycle continue

The Cacti

So much is unwanted in the desert

The spines of cacti, the slanted winds of snow

The pounding gaze of the sun, the final caress of a spider

But amidst this oasis of barbs there is

Bounty of those sweeter, softer moments

That do not compare in size or scale but surpass in sanctity

The dry sweet taste of elusive saguaro fruit,

Or the secret unseeming honeyed centers of prickly pear

And the gentle visit of a young soft hare, joining us for lunch

I have naively thought that in life there is a rule of justice:

All tragedy is weighed in equal measure with joy

Maybe there is more merit there then I once thought

Puppy at the Docks

Down on the clay yellow stone of that dock

Clothed in the indigo hues of spectacle

Swarming with every walk of life

There is only one true visitor

Only one who can see through the forest of legs

To long for the ripples in the water

Or notice the deep creases in the solemn face of the sarangi salesman

The generations of ancestors debate, and

In the same miracle of that day long ago:

I kneel, outstretching a tentative hand in peace

To share a brief moment of kinship

I gently scratch its soft fur, and that slow, contented closing of its eyes

Is a greater reward than could be asked of any feat

Through the indulgent and curious weight of your gaze

And that momentary abandon in connection

I now carry you here with me

And maybe you carry me too:

Little spotted puppy of the old city on the clay yellow docks

Photo poem

Back then life was so simple

That an ampoule of gold could cure all ailments

The brilliant luster of the metal

Produced a smile so transcendent it broke my symmetry

But all joy comes with sadness

And just moments later I would smash

My hard won prize into thousands of burning pieces

The loss of the precious ampoule weighs on me even still

And the longing to steal someone else's prize

Highlights my humanity in stark relief

The only thing I question is the imbalance of life

That my experience sits monolithic

In my mind for the loss of the precious thing

But does not rejoice at the joy of having had it

However fleeting

Extended Metaphor

When the dust of time settles to the sea bead

And all the crustaceans have died and fossilized

When the octopus’ rock gardens have been swept away

And the clownfish’s anemone has gone

Come to me then and say ‘When will I die?’

And this to you I tell ‘With the least speck of specks at the end of it all’

Blue Denim Couch

The frayed edges and patchwork stains can only rival the fading of its once vivid color

Even its ideals are left behind, the craze for denim forgotten in the early 2000s with punk rock and Nokias

It sits in the back corner of my room opposite my bed never chosen in favor of the old couch

My childhood was rooted in the quaintly preppy suburbs of New Jersey where I would risk life and limb jumping between the gap the two halves of the couch afforded caught every time by its rough but warm embrace

Its versatility is a testament to inanimate objects, how it transitions seamlessly from crib to the fraught resting grounds of a teenager

After much turmoil and the tragic loss of one half of the couch, it still represents the last fraction of that naive notion of stability