Almond , almond , you are a light
Around God’s son in old painting.
Now in Diwali you are my eating,
A fixated body to float away from.
Your inside makes me mind sharp.
Your outside is a partly bird eaten.
You are marooned in fallen leaves
And tiny stones floating in the sun.
Almond , almond , why do you fall
When birds have stomach cramps?
Almond, almond, why are you light
When there are no more painters?
Almond,almond is there God’s son
In Mandorla light ,almond shaped?
Are minds almond sharp over milk
When a moon is partly bird eaten?
We keep looking .We keep chasing Rilke in the stars and under the old man’s bed. The eyelids are raised gently to the stars as they keep flowering beside a pale moon.
They hide women under them. The women’s blouse backs have old jasmines in them .
After Rilke,you keep looking
Under the stars and beyond
Or under the old man’s bed.
Chase after Rilke’s old man.
Keep looking a star beyond
Or under the old man’s bed.
We have old jasmines in our washed out pockets. They still smell of the stars.
Does parijat remember its roots,
Or a brief sky it had bloomed in
Along with the late night moon?
Death is so vulgar, utterly inane
On an earth, from blooming sky.
What a way to get back to roots.
(Parijat is night flowering Indian coral flower that drops to the earth after blooming)
She would come out of laziness
Wading through the moat for us
For visual contrast for cameras.
She finds her own white boring
In a bleak brown zoo enclosure
The green water may liven it up.
We try to reason need for white
A setting apart sense, idle king’s
Sylvan fancy or a wild life love.
A white tiger might have begun
In woods not for its tigerliness
But color change for king’s eyes
Bored with a golden brown coat
Burning bright in Blake’s poem.
Fog in the throat was exemplary. When we faced a severe dog on the street we had such fog in our throat. But fog in the throat was like mist in our eyes. That was no big deal of a word assembly, unless it meant something from the dog’s side.Yes. If we had fog in our throat , the dog had it too.
So we have today’s poem , where both I and dog have fog in our throats:
Fog in the throat
At times there is death’s browning,
An experience of the fog in throat
A chemical stirred by a stray dog
Smelling our death in casual walk.
The dog is sniffing his own death
Barking head off on our intrusion
At a death walking in on two legs,
Trying to fight a fog in his throat.
The winter is now here
To the old fogged mind
Not a knife cold of snow
In hills of silver and sun
Cloudy from tea mouths.
Mind steps into a winter
Of a pale ghost it is now
Crusted with white years.
More than ice it is a fog
That makes up its mind.
(Referring to Wallace Stevens ‘ poem The Snow man)
The zebras tend to smile after the act
And at times before , in anticipation.
Their camouflage acts fine normally
As smiles are taken for tree shadows.
After act ,no difference exists in smiles
Between a zebra’s and its predator’s.