Minutes are streams
that flow into rivers,
rivers are days
that flow into
the Seas of Time;
Time is a drop
that falls with the rain
that runs into streams
where the minutes gather
and flow again.
“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,
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.
the long wait
of disappointed days
to be afar off
out of reach
of our grasp
that flails forlornly
in the air
that were never here
in the now;
that forever now
that finds us
grasping at pity
for pity’s sake,
until the shimmering itself
and we awake
from dreamless dreams
and sleepless sleep
where we were
in the now,
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
how we’ve come to be
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.
The hook lodges in the mouth
of the fish,
the fish thinks the hook is the
thinks if it can only get rid of it,
then all will be well again
in its world;
But it is wrong…
The hook is attached to a line
which is attached to a rod
which is held by a hand
And the hand is controlled by
a mind which has been waiting
and watching and plotting the best
time and place and method to
catch the fish;
And so the fish struggles
to free itself,
but all it manages to do
is to embed the hook deeper,
And as it continues to wriggle
and fight it uses up its
supplies of energy until it
is too exhausted to continue
and then its struggles cease;
And the hand senses it,
and begins to wind in the reel..
In the beginning
when all has ended,
after the last vicissitudes
I encounter are rendered
null and void,
I’ll realise that the
journey is the destination
and mornings were never
my time of day,
much preferring the
early evenings of drinks before dinner
and a reverential contemplation
of sunsets in faraway places
I’d never been nor
would ever get to
in the time allowed,
when there was never enough
after much ado about nothing
with nothing more to say,
I find myself
at the end,
where everything begins.
Where are they?
where are those words
that should have been
here…. and…. here…. and here,
all arranged in neat,
Where are they?
those absentees who’ve
neglected their solemn duty
and have absconded into obscurity:
Meaning like wheat
cannot be harvested if
the page like the field
isn’t planted beforehand;
so, where are they?
the….. words……. are
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