It took calm to hoard sea-blessing, earth-char, mountain-hark it took all the strangeness that the mussels could gather midstream to bring Song to flute, need to burn, soothe to tremor it took hearsay, birdflit, hearttick to overcome flight, reduce roadtear, become multipludinous -
when you spin the tale, the x-axis meeting the why of forlorn metastasized asymptotes of utmost hubris, the storyline mutates into song mutates into symbols that retch out meaning from the shell that numbed as it echoed – when you tiptoed on the storytellers tail ouching the eastern spirits sense of unwantoncy, the tarred streets cried for old ground compelling the poem to tend to the low – the burn of roots & the crafting of impossible syllable –
Noting the absence of ceremony fire in her stories, Dharamsherni took to a desert where no sants, bhakts or shaikhs - sacred or recreational - were remembered. Sand took form as poetry sprang to quench the mirages’ imagined thirst. There was Number and then the science of Number where taking earth apart from its founding poems - though a tad violent - was deemed benevolent . Dharamsherni saw no forest so she borrowed one from stories from a passing mirage. It was borrowed on market terms with high interest, the science of Number being the middleman. Joy longed to breathe fire back into the forest, but the Numbers intervened citing the infeasibility of it all: the imagined debt was unsustainable, but something could be worked out, the professor of Numbers claimed. Of course there would be war and senseless killing, but nothing that could not be wrapped up in benevolence and parceled off as bits of future. This is one telling of how dreams stopped being fountains.
when red wandered along dust-spoked streets, the orchid lamented loss of color as it spun around an axis that separated the darkest shade of red from others – the visible dis-unity shook no flower from its root each knew their place in the sun now ballooning in solitary knowledge of starless dreamscapes marking time, marking inkblots of time -
the ungatekept poem shunned being enclosed - sun spoke the unencumbered poem before its spokes were enumerated & circumscribed - what did it mean to gatekeep a poem? it meant worshiping the friend & differentiating the integral it meant snagging the sung into so many fragments you could no longer call it song the new poem has the same bark as the oldest tree soothed with the sharpness of water and the roundness of sky, the poem meets ink in remembrance, the cord is thrown off its moorings & the trail of cordlets form a vapor that makes story out of birdsong -
Take the withered mountain and try to find its lake whose atoms are forever running late they cannot choose between the exigency of water and the posterity of stone reach of loss equals the reach of small equals the hundred wishes that stand with petals & fronds I catch the passage of these petals & fronds as if it was my name carved out in song as if the algebra of difficulty is measure of frailty if only finality confirmed origin would that the child chide sky -
truth being part of the overall whatever, we are beheft somewhat to mark our calendars & heed our maps what was best left untrod is furious at being charted out so -
If the thread of the song’s burn kept to the dark there would be no treebark & no beesting they would talk as if the rain was there for just gossip they would talk as if the forest was all alone -
Past the brittle reed of wonder past the unwrit unspelt large of words lies the worn underness of warm things the vial of all beginnings scratches dawn and you wake as the snake does to its withered skin if you float a lie on a river will it flow as readily as one that made its way to heaven, reborn as scripture?
When hugeness trots a while becoming song and sits you can sense the thrill of small in the quiver of lost meanings it is as if the sun was beginning to read the lips of vapor throwing shadows where words dithered