I They say that the human body is sixty percent water. And I believe them. I’ve always known it. I have felt the water balancing in my stomach like a bubble level, when I weep it comes to my throat. I’ve heard it too, rippling inside of my restless vessel be it not as alive as I feel it now, here running the last lap over the bridge its strong legs deep in the blue, feet thump thumping the asphalt heart throb thudding against its walls; the clangor of reinforced steel and the sea rising and falling within me. Water recognizing its own.
II It must have a field of its own- pulling back waves in its fold, devouring rivers, even a tear pulls its weight. For now we’re moored here. Eventually perhaps we will all collapse into water? And if that is true, then there must be peace for all lost things somewhere in the center of the storm, then there must be hope for us all.
FOOTNOTE: Rode up to the creek yesterday and completed a poem. How was your weekend?
Nothing’s changed really merely dipped in dark ink, the lake still mirrors silver as hauls of fish floating. But night doesn’t fall; it rises from the still opal – a mermaid come to roost on the shell-hard bank, opening like a cautious fist she rows the moon.
Curled leaves (mermaid hair) feed the rivulets of her bare arms to where her fingers dig into the dimpled cisterns of her bed. Everything waits. The shadows of reed and trunk, even the ballooning breathing silence is gooseflesh and wound spring. We lie wakeful on the tense sinew of the night poised on edge – like a seed on the cusp of wild possibility.
FOOTNOTE: I must’ve been living under a rock to not have heard about Mary Oliver. Her poems are genius! I’ve been bingeing on all of her works I could get my hands on. ‘The Swan’ is currently my absolute favorite.
Indian Poetry Review is a biannual poetry-only print magazine which aims to publish the best works that speak emotionally. The issue contains a wonderful variety of poems and is worth spending some time reading through.
So, short announcement! My poem, Blank Wall, is published in Drawn to the Light Press – Issue 2, February 2021. It’s such an honour to be featured alongside such brilliant pieces. Maybe you could spend the Sunday curling up with this issue? Follow the link below.
It’s impossible to shake off the pigeons from their dogged grasp onto everything, the loft, the terrace, the roof- the loft back again. That blue-grey huddle, that wooden whir always wheeling. Nothing can make it give, to leave and not look back. Haven’t I chased enough ones to know that a stone would only send them so far as to half-moon right back? Have I not wondered so much more if they wouldn’t, just for once in a long while, surf the wind that blows or perch on a branch or ledge, not for anything else but simply because they liked the way it caught the sun? Is that what I should have done too?
FOOTNOTE: I am never more inspired to write than when there’s a project deadline looming. Maybe I’ll write another poem… or maybe I’ll knit a stocking, who knows! Nonetheless, I wish everyone a happy New Year.
Lore has it that Guy Fawkes of York sat guard on the devil’s pitchfork, at the House of Lords, the Abbey; for gunpowder that ‘neath it lay.
At a place well-nigh and haunted, the witches on their brooms chanted, “Hax pax max deus adimax, King James’ Majesty, may your heart lax!”
And jack o’lanterns rejoiced in laughter but evil didn’t prevail long after when warned by a letter, the royal forces charged to Westiminster on their horses.
No not horses! They were unicorns bright. Though Fawkes on his pitchfork shot into the night, he was toppled over and left to rot. So goes the tale of the Gunpowder plot.
FOOTNOTE: Happy Guy Fawkes Day to all !
Here’s a Halloween take on the Gunpowder plot to assassinate King James of England in the 1605. I wrote this one a long time back when I truly believed Abbey and lay rhymed. : P Those of you interested in the history of it would want to check out this famous English poem which was my inspiration:
Stood thoughtful on my table’s end a hackneyed vase, under dirt and time and other such parasites. There in the corner of my eye it stood whenever I would read or write or sketch. On some days it would hold out a rose for me And on others a posy of violets, smearing the air with laughter. A cluster of basil leaves I found one day strumming music to the wind. Sometimes I would myself fill it with countless niveous daisies. And then on some days, like today, it would stand bare and empty and hopeful.
FOOTNOTE: I remembered I have a blog page, so here I am after eight months : P
They have pled their case
already, wept off half their lengths
and hang their tears on wilted spines.
All their prayers have sighing fled
the bleary-rimmed eye of the flame-
Now only black clouds pucker
upon their brows, and how certain
from their twisted maws, roars
a battle cry,
how sudden as a seashell
brought to ear. Hear!
slicing in the sweating air.
Is it fear that makes
the glazed walls shake?
One by one, they are
pulled down – kneeling, keeling,
Wholly uprooted; lie splayed out
like dissected limbs on a blood-field-
a deformed white monument.
Dimpled orange motes crawl
in waxy cupped-hand stubs,
like swatted flies, before
being snuffed out, at last.
FOOTNOTE: I’ve been writing this poem in snatches for almost a year now, and it refuses to come together. I don’t think it’s possible to mend it anymore, so here’s posting an unedited work-in-progress. Might work on it later though, who knows.
Slipping down turrets of green
And setting the copperpods to vibrate
Her games trifle varied.
Again and again, skimming over filigreed boughs
She stumbled down in golden shards
And splintered upon a grassy lawn.
What light she snuck from under leafy eaves,
There careless upon the grassy lawn.
Not knowing that seasons change
And another day, to this same hoar-crested patch
Would she turn her steps-
No hoar, no crest-
But for it chirruped louder still;
Stealing from branch to branch,
Proud of her tricks.
FOOTNOTE: Posting April in July because procrastination.