“What if impulsive, delicate bird
one instinct made you rise
out of this life, into another’s,
then from another’s, circling to your own?
You are folded in my eyes,
whose irises will open
to a white sky with bird and woman gone.” Derek Walcott (from his poem, “Guyana”)
Recurrence is the dead silence of the heartless noon
           Belonging neither to the certainty of the
           Precipitated moon nor to the improbable out
           Pouring of phrases allowed with stingy
           Grace, a hollowed out sense of remaining
           True to the repetition, the steady thump
           Thump of a wary heart, a quickening quick
           Enough for a child's sense of proportion.

Recurrence is the most recent annulment of the pre
           Varication of whim, the new instalment
           Of story, of rhyme, the building up of
           Yesterday in the mist of now. For the
           Meter to start effecting, the efficacy
           Of the myth has to give. For the thump
           Thump to stay true to the repetition, the
           Greys are allowed to persist in tandem.

Recurrence is the outpouring of this, of the untamed
           Thus, of the poem's longing for bird, for
           Woman, for the newness of word to spill
           Over and to shriek. A final word of caution,
           A parting shrill of care, a deafening of
           Syllables aligned with song's want of care,
           And a few parables of old, each one a pebble
           Of some life, a grain of solidity in thick mist.

Sampled Verse

The tangerine outcomes of die-cast possibilities
arrange themselves as if odour is to sense as
numbers are to math, the inklings of diminished
faith clamor to listen to a roar, a whistle and

A twist of amour, lots cast, argumentative asides
factored in, elaborations bamboozled as they too
have a say, and the broken filaments of restituted
outcomes form the basis of a new sample space.

fear and dust

“I will show you fear in a handful of dust.” T.S. Eliot

The prongs of a many-faceted emotion are carted
Off into parcels, mouthfuls of tasteless, morbid sums
And cancellations. They are bred anew for laughter.

The songs of a many-faceted inhumanity are dissolved
In a vestibule leading to languid quarters breeding a
New kin of steam, a strain too thick, too coarse to hide.

The wrongs of a many-faceted resolution of earth,
Dust, rock, and harm are given anew to semantics
Of pain and lacerated joy. They will be there tomorrow.

Versically Probable

Roughly edged conversation is the mouthpiece
                   Of an introversion that mumbles in space
The cornerflaps revel in untombed severances
                   Cutting the heart of story midway, break
Ing the space of ample possibilities, and asking
                   The eviscerated query: is it dawn yet?

Is it time for a hunched over deliverance to seek
                   To beg, to want to give to need its want
Of need, and to arrive afresh on the shores: this
                   Is new? Is this new? The hunched over
The roughly edged, the carried over after division
                   The "repeat after me," the varied of noun.

Brown man’s burden

About 12 years ago, in 2002, on my first visit to Accra, Ghana, I was given a lighthearted article on how difficult it is to understand the local dialect of English, how yes doesn’t mean yes, and so on. 12 years on, that article seems neither innocuous nor lighthearted.
The brown comprador having just been
Orientated to the dark can set about 
                      Keenly on sharing his
                      Part of the white burden.

Learn quickly young man the terms of
Trade: if 'capacity building' doesn't
                      Bump your gooses, repeat
                      'Sustainable' three times
Before bedtime. Learn quickly, brown
Saheb, your place in the scheme of 
                      Things, in the scheme
                      Of schemes, oh burden

Of burdens. Listen too to the inaudible
Wail inside chiming with the volume of 
                      Silent moan around you, about you, 
                      And wait, wait till it becomes a howl.

The eking of song

When determent is arguably passive
               When the heat of giving is lost
To the argumentative gong of mischief
               The petulant argumentative gong
There is then the slow effulgence of a
               River's wilful undulating, its ardor
Somehow wilted over, its lust for light
               Somehow tilted towards shadow
And the meandering lullabies of night
               Caressing the soul of its flow, the
Doubtful artifice of articulated hunger.

intellect and will

“I’m a pessimist because of intelligence, but an optimist because of will.”
Quoted by Antonio Gramsci who made famous Romain Rolland’s maxim “Pessimism of the intellect, optimism of the will.”

There is no afterthought, no sunken realization
no bellweather moment of askew tangents
no riveting of starry eyed stony silences to
anchors of yore, anchors of near distance.

And there is the act, mere hint of an act that follows the consequence of the preceding one.

There is no mere dilly-dallying of clever aphorisms
no curvature of light loud enough to blind
no algorithm perverse enough to loop for
ever and no revelation of heaven in dust.

Yet there is the act, the sheer act of gutting out the innards of doom and making it right.

The empire is sacred

“The empire is a sacred vessel and nothing should be done to it. Whoever does anything will ruin it; whoever lays hold of it will lose it.” Tao Te Ching (XXIX)

An odd navel gazing that makes and keeps on making the same
Error; an uneven
Bent of sight goes on galvanizing sightless tirades of excellentia,
Apologia when
The naught of naughts was so much at hand, when the grace
Of a zero could
Persuade an inner calm, when the stream could have meandered
Downwards as
Physics would have it had it not been for a relentless will of wanton

Poincaré’s recurrence

The Poincaré recurrence theorem states that certain systems will, after a sufficiently long but finite time, return to a state very close to the initial state.

That return is a given is goose-bumpingly reassuring, but
The initiality, is it just the primordial sense of togetherness
Or something less? If so, what to make of the guarantor who
Does with her math what the fairytale-teller does with his
Amoral ends grafted onto mystic beginnings and shadowy
Roomfuls blighting necessity upon daft necessity in a blink?