I triangulate the oars of now, with
Mask of fate; you speak now, I go
That way, the oars of now will roar.
The fate of brothers, sisters, crowd
Me out with fear, with dust, with
The crab of hate; mites of reveries
And peals of joy, where to? I ask
My friend, your feet, my eyes speak.
The loud nail is your coffin’s
Mosque, its piece at one with
Door; aye, it will not speak
Now, should it? and why? Cast
The net on the shoulder of a
Fixed eye and sail eastward.
There is a song bereft of shore, where
The boat will not wander off to, where
The sink of rock will not listen to,
Where the dark of your moon’s moon is
Ready to fly. “When?” you ask. That is
The time for the forbidden to lay low.
But I seek to mend the roof of snow, the
Guilt of your sun’s sun, and the plough
Of snow snuffed with mud. I seek to rend
The wow, the now, the stilted, stunted
Crew of yore. Your friend, your deep pockets
Of lore will dare to stand by and linger.
On many an idle day, the
stone turns red as
light turns to stone, as
wheat turns to chaff as it turns to stone, and then you remember
to break bread, speak sun, cry prayer, shed
tear to make whole the stone, the full, the
red, the idle day is idle no more.
On many an idle day have I grieved over lost time. But it is never lost, my lord. Thou hast taken every moment of my life in thine own hands.
Hidden in the heart of things thou art nourishing seeds into sprouts, buds into blossoms, and ripening flowers into fruitfulness.
I was tired and sleeping on my idle bed and imagined all work had ceased. In the morning I woke up and found my garden full with wonders of flowers.
from Tagore’s Gitanjali.
“If Eve had written Genesis, what would she have said about the first night of human love?
Eve would have begun by making it clear that she was not born from anyone’s rib, nor did she know any serpents, nor did she offer anyone apples, and God never told her that giving birth would hurt or that your husband would tell you what to do. All those stories were just lies Adam told the press.” Eduardo Galeano, from his book Upside Down.
If Eve had written Genesis
the disconsolate flicker would
be just that, a flicker;
the moonbeam would
cast moonshadow in
with the child's mooring
of play; the capital of
would prance about in other
capitals, all shucking class.
If Eve had written Genesis
would she have stopped mid
way and utter a soul
ful harp, a glitterful
cup of wilful lore of
that crusts her, chucks
her rhyme and seems
enough for traffic to flow, for
greens to align with the pink?
I hogwashed the noon at midday’s
strike; the hen of my moon is
telling me to go and rise above
flotsam. I say, “flotsam is not what
it is.” Epistemology confounds the
hen and it circumvents argument
calling, “afraid, afraid!” Yet
there is silence in the cull of
the argumentative hen; its moon
is red with soothe and I rest my case.
the elision of river-mud is river’s
right, the cast of stone is the
stone-monger’s rite of message, when
the cunning door stands, the clumsy
floor recoils, and the stone is ground,
the bits of elision sink without clever
eulogies or stamps of door or the bard’s
ink leaking stone, leeching mud of floor.
the sting of argument partakes
in vessels that clank that
sink dust that climb up the
tale of the brother’s bother
and sink dust; the sting of the
argument pieces you pieces the
thought of you pieces the silence
that crumbs the master’s will.
the rapt of silent grief
is fire; tends to the river’s
halt and its precipice as it
bends its curvature in subtle
proportion, the decay of pun,
the plum revulsion of enamel.
sing away the kite song, daughter,
and sweep night’s will into
a clever thread that will beckon
sky and dread to lull you to sleep;
sing away then the song of the kite,
daughter, and weep night’s will
into a solemn ravine that will
hold the sun when your song is done.
Where is the astute set of
Connected points that greet
Your short wisdom, your less
Than, or more or less than?
What kiln would store the
Burn, the stick, the rank
Of the hole that bumps you
Out of dimension to meet?
the evening sentinel
the morning cartilage
as easy reflections
tons of ruminage
cant, loft, sift
sons, daughters of damage.
left-right, what resides in
the tilt is the residue of
guilt, the absence of mother,
so much kill, the fuel and
the rant of the duel and
the slant and the starch.
II. solidarity i
the solitary craft is the solidarity
of it; the voice of the bard is the
bird in it; the click of the far is
the beckoning, the suit of horror,
the reason that earth chose sky.
II.V solidarity ii
in solidarity with a thousand points of light, with the germs
of steel, with the hobbits that pretend to know how to mate
and game the blasted parrots repeating a tonic line; in solidarity
with the statistical limit of many, many points of night converging
on day, with nasty afterthoughts mingling merry, mingling fairydust.