Attributed to Hieronymus Bosch
When all there is
is gone
and all that ever was
is no more,
There will be only empty faces
weeping tears that flood
from lidless eyes
staring into a void
that was our tomorrow;
and tomorrow
whose hours will never strike
whose pain we will never feel
nor disappointments endure,
there will be only tongueless mouths
screaming a truth
that we can no longer hear
when all is gone.
You dead or what?
“There are the dead and those who claim to be dead”,
he opined;
“For someone who’s supposed to be
dead you seem to be doing a lot of
moving around”,
he said arching an eyebrow;
“Not that I would question your right
to identify as dead”,
his lips dripping with irony;
“Merely that your present vivacity
doesn’t immediately convey to others
an impression that you are indeed dead”.
Hearing this mortophobic prejudice,
the one identifying as dead slid back
into the coffin muttering,
they’d wait until someone sympathetic
to their lifestyle choice comes along.
Cadenza
And what have I made of life ?
What have I understood if anything at all?
I think therefore I am is just plain wrong,
I “do” therefore I am is much closer to the mark for me;
So what have I made of life ?
What has mine been other than that
which it is and was always going to be,
a Cadenza-
” a technically brilliant sometimes improvised solo passage toward the close of a concerto.”
almost done then ?
soon,
but not just yet
Still
If we stood still
for long enough,
and Time stood still
beside us,
would we still
be still standing,
standing still beside the
time as it now stood,
standing at that time
when we chose to do
nothing and go nowhere
so that we would be
all alone and still;
standing with Time itself
that has always
stood
still?
“I don’t recognise that potato!
what is it doing here?”
enquired the perfumed Duc de Charlatan
with ineffable aristocratic mien;
To disturb the quotidian equilibrium
of this pastoral mise-en-scene
with the inclusion of an errant vegetable,
was in the Duc de Charlatan’s estimation
an inexcusable faux-pas traducing
countless centuries of natural order
and its attendant requisite deference;
To impugn the ethereal harmony
of form,subject and proportion
in such a profane manner according,
that is,to his Excellency,
necessitates the perpetrator of this act
once apprehended be subject to
the full penalties that the Law allows,
which the Duc de Charlatan opined,
requires,
“Death!”.
Trees are the living-ones, they have
Their hearts and souls, the souls
Which reverberate love in the hearts
Of philocalists, the philocalist owls.
They see, they sing, the hear, they taste,
And they sense our senses in true sense,
They are makers; they make poets,
Obliqueness is their beauty, and fragrance.
Winds are their messengers, their lovers
Are flutterbies, bees and we, the poets,
Every leaf that falls down reverberates her
Sonnet, ballad of life, and odes.
The last leaf tells her story and
Acompanies her friends- in the stack,
They tell their ballads to wandering winds
And winds sing it to buds and bees.
The ballads must be set in autumn archive,
O, poet jagdish, the philosophy must be alive.
What is the wind? -a flow in many forms, What the bards have call’d thee
All are their melodious evergreen songs, As a philocalist I see the wind in me.
Wind, a divine secret agent of the almighty, Invisibly roaming over seas, soils and nature For tidings of the colourful world slightly,
And the deeds, white and black of the creatures.
Wind, a messanger, takes the messages fairly
Of innumerable flowers’ fragrances,
Sweetness of fruits, melodies of bird-songs, tastes of poetry, And to the peasants love of animals’ disturbances.
Wind, a bondage of love and peace
Amongst the diverse hearts of its creatures,
And for a painter, wind is a moving picture
Oaf far-fatch’d fields, blue skies and solitary seas.
Wind, a wander’r rolling up the fallen leaves With her into the spelly paths making sound,
A Sufi singer; the song of herself can be listen’d In a loud silence all around.
Wind, a great saviour, a transparent shelter,
Creatures, all the three, are under her absent presence, They find haven in heaven of the lady defender,
The wind is wind, an extreme instance.
Now
is forever,
now forever,
the long wait
of disappointed days
appointed
to be afar off
and away;
out of reach
of our grasp
that flails forlornly
in the air
striking at
shimmering
apparitions
that were never here
never real
in the now;
that forever now
that finds us
flailing
with outstretched
mendicant hands
grasping at pity
for pity’s sake,
until the shimmering itself
stops,
and we awake
from dreamless dreams
and sleepless sleep
staring agape
at
where we were
and are
in the now,
forever
Far,far away
in some distant place
past some vanishing point
on a horizon pan-caked flat
indivisible from the sky,
here we are
here we wander,
around and around
wondering
how we’ve come to be
here;
newly arrived somehow
at a place beyond
the Vanishing Point
where earth becomes sky
and sky itself,
we see now
even thro’ the glass darkly
all before us
the parallax view.
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