A creature of love
knows not how to live without love.
Don’t tell her love is some
post-modern Victorian myth!
For on her heart
perhaps a burden too heavy
Alone it cannot bear
it migrates through her body.
There are painkillers for lovers
and mellow songs for loners, thankfully.
Squint and you will discover
blue islands in orange-red flaming oceans.
The deceptive breaking of tides
is her stretching her naked limbs
as she wakes up from a lazy slumber.
A fusion of eclectic behaviour of dream patterns
created such projections
of the most vibrant of colours
those that rose from the depths of these strange oceans.
She was a purple green creature
who lived beneath these tidal waves
while he took flights in the pristine air above.
Tiny red hyperopia circles on the surface,
these oceans keep an eye on
the surreptitious movements of the clouds.
(Photo by David Maisel~ Library of Dust)
Happiness to me is
forgetting binoculars at home,
and finding the need for none.
For the bright bird perched too close and
and whistled a delicate song, privately for me.
Happiness to me is
forgetting my drawing book at home,
and finding a few crisp blank pages
at the start and also at the end
of my new favourite poetry book,
Simic’s That Little Something.
Forgetting my chocolate ration,
and finding a kind co-traveller
who offers me coconut sweet
made in home made ghee
served with a beautiful smile.
Forgetting my playlist at home,
but finding in every stop
buses that played melodies
one after another
filling the moist skies with lovely notes.
Forgetting my worries at home,
and finding the need for none,
no reason to worry about
in these ghats
soaked in rains
and where birds make homes
in dead trees.
Photo taken at Redstone Eco Centre
If hearts of those you loved
were flowers that could be saved
in between the pages of
your favorite poetry book.
How many hearts would you save?
How many flowers will I find
pressed in between the pages
of your poetry books?
Oh! holy people on the lee-ward side
on this side of the high mountains
my spirit in the Bardo patiently awaits.
it never stays.
It comes unannounced though,
like a deep-cut in skin
that seeks your undivided attention,
and hurts you even in your sleep.
You pamper it and you keep it warm, dry and safe –
love is beautiful even when it’s bruised black and blue,
and sometimes bleeding,
and when it hurts.
And when it heals
you don’t want it back,
you don’t remember it.
I loved once, and I was loved
and it stayed with me like a deep cut,
seeking my attention,
and then it was gone.
On days slow such as these,
I tend to remember
a certain sweet kiss,
a tender touch,
warm gaze of eyes on my skin.
But the wounds are all healed,
and I am ready to be in love again.
Photo (Arunachal Pradesh) by Nitin Das, who makes beautiful nature films.
As I float above this viridian valley
she awakes to my misty notes of love
She draws the veil
and stretches her limbs,
Oh, your cloud kissed forests
through which flow streams of love
Sometimes I hover,
sometimes I enwrap your forest-scape, pristine.
As I saunter from valley to valley
and hover on your cloud kissed peaks
I fall in love yet again,
with your patterns, your colors
your textures, your music,
even your silence.