i) time & ii) time

The seep of time is the rot of it
The indissoluble
    effable
    lout, time.

Grip out a handful of song & sing
The ineffable
    unaccounted
    tout, time.

Twice the multiplication, thrice
The reckoning
    of sliced
    out time.
Here the impossible union
of spheres of existence is actual,
Here the past and future
Are conquered, and reconciled – “The Dry Salvages”, T.S. Eliot

peeps – I

Dawn reeks of peopled sun, hearkening
red to a village voice, cast out of
now, hearkening red to pillaged joice.

Claw specks of mottled sun, brothering
inch of a shucked tryst, cast out of
now, brothering inch of outgunned fist.

Guff hums of gavelled sun, ushering
ruck of animate scale, cast out of
now, ushering ruck of common frail.

space, body, time

If this is my body 
would it not follow my will? 
 
If this is your body 
would it not follow your will? 
 
Obviously, it is neither your body 
nor mine: 
        it is the fickle body 
of the burning world you made, 
 
Ramanatha.
(Dasimayya; translated by A.K. Ramanujan)

This is not to say that time and being are
Corpuscles of a tinier, simpler time-being.

It does not follow that the body of error
Is torn by sub-errors by sub-fools in sub-time.

The ravishment of deed is time; it is being.
It is but a remnant of the fabric of thus-ness.

Optimism of rage

"Rage, rage against the dying of the light" - Dylan Thomas

Rage too against the silence
goading dull obeisance to creep
of power, a practised diligence
to shun the ear when the mynah

cries its cry;  the mountain weary
of the eagle soar, strains to hear
the treetop chirps, longs to mingle
with earth that grounds.

The barbarian and the snakecharmer

              "Tonight, you grow fire
In your home; the hearth is warmer than
It was day before, and the heat is some
What hotter."

Tell me, o bearer of the bard's timeless
Residues, the starkness of what remains,
Endures. Tell me too, o quills that ink
The shores of pain, of destitute growth
And gain.

               "Tomorrow's morrow is now past."

The temple grounded, the sword sheathed, the
Fill of land is for the maker's glory, and
Fuel for the till.

               "Cull your seamstress vows,
Pulverize the atoms of your being, the order
Of light is now of silent gratitude."

The worms of time look about and confer with
The muse of the forest, the news of night;
The loose ground will shift in preparation.

               "Did I mention the glories and
Speak of the stains?"

No matter now, the glory, the stain, the dim
Flames from the hearth are programmed to keep
Your fellowship warm.

lament of the clay anklet

should the sharded anklet go
home where no names are spoken
or out in the open where sulfurous
kannagi, livid, goes a routin’?

can the caste out voice speak at
all in a room full of tenors
rasping out airs – heirs of plumped
entitlement and closed spaces?

would the sunken claw out and
bark, bereft of sun, unmoored
and short of tooth, of bite?
kannagi, livid, ekes out smoke.

Kannagi is the avenging widow from the Tamil epic Silappatikaram (‘The tale of an anklet’).