Ant song

I met Revolution again the other day recalling how a younger me was 
          smitten by her fire & song      so now are you the peacock or the

Mountain? neither, she said, I am the dust that settled on the monkey's
          breath after your wars      will you then sear through our dreams as

Violet-green clouds of remembrance?   only the monkey's breath knows
          when your blanched sword melds with the colors of a million ants -  

sun-memory

sun draws not a single breach of song     carries over
       lucid breath of trunk & color      inches forth the
       grip of vapor, move of word, strum of earth -

sun forgets what it shone over      carrier of branch &
        home, humor & moan       inching away from 
        caliper & scale, it remembers mostly mirth -

Counting problem

It's a counting problem -  ones turning into other ones,
                                             the count depending not on the leopard's spots but how
                                             they roll off her back teaching clouds how to fold song into
                                             rain

---

The transformation of a dual world into a binary world is the transformation of the world of two and of many inequalities but complete into a world of one and deficiency. If duality is one of the variants of the multiple, binarism is the world of the one, of the grid and universal referent.

– Rita Laura Segato

the rain that gave you words

could you tell which rain it was that gave you words: was it
       the one which knew the ground was as certain as the gash
       of sky from which it fell, or the one tied to the shadow of
       an older rain, or the ground itself turned sorrow turned
rain?

math-bird song

and if the bird knew how to solve differential equations would
        she hurry up & build
        funeraries, motelsarais, warehousings,

or would she find ways to link flower with stone, leafred
        with riverbed & heartsink
        with lamentories, joylings, trepids?

                                       

Indus/Indios

I as earth     singular as plural
                      river
                      indigenous

doors that are voices

see me through doors that are voices
        carrying asphalt when it should be
        loam    -   dream me through doors

that are voices, silting hue  -   when 
        will the sun sit with me, remember
        sunken sky & play with half-lives?

see me through lives that are doors
         that are voices carrying the silt of
         days, banks that are salt & hue -

Gratitude lost

Used to be the bird settled down on the green you sowed, its chirp saying thanks    Gaia glad    now when it perches on some green, there is a riddle for the sky - and you - to solve    how can the bird even speak to the sun's flare with such flutter?    Gaia spins an urgent tale    no sooner has it been said than the words are felt futile   then forgotten

koi kahe ye kis ne kaha tha, keh do jo kuch kehna hai
meeraji keh kar pachtaaya aur phir kehna bhool gaya

who said say what you have to say?
I said, regretted, then forgot to say

Meeraji

the storytellers tail

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 –

the borrowing of the forest

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.