Death

Monsoon wings

14/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

San rock painting of ‘shamans of the rain’ ( !khwa:-ka xorro) capturing an imaginary ‘rain- animal.’ When it was killed, the creature’s blood and milk were believed to fall as rain. The fish and eels indicate that the ‘trance-event’ is taking place in an underwater spirit realm. Lesotho. After Stow 1930: pl. 67a. Copy made in the 1870s. 

San rock painting of ‘shamans of the rain’ ( !khwa:-ka xorro)

I went to buy some eggs
and I saw a winged ant sparkling upon the white lap
of a woman who sits.

I told her
popping fear-delight,
of the company she had,
and all she did
was cluck her tongue,
and say that they die, after the rains.

Of lately, my sweet dreams
in restless jaws
but with calm odors of the ground
my flesh-reap
I am riding an Aladdin lamp,
to moth to flames
and oh so clearly, I see the clouds
upon my tongue
a purple night–
We’re born again
if only to die.

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The Crocodile

15/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Image result for crocodile surreal

Image by Vitogoni 

Dear words,
make me
me again.

There is a river in the jungle,
in it,
men floated like water
and animals bowed their head
to drink in life
even when death muddied their beds.

I keep having horrible dreams,
of children and swimming pools
water, for death
as in womb.

Dishonesty or Way of life?
Predators drinking at the bank,
Oh, what an uncanny space.

You think you have stopped watching the news,
but have you?

Ebb

 

My father sleeps at the edge of the bed adjacent to a chair. Upon that chair, there sits a man with a dark horse-shoe jawline. His collars have little lilies, scattered across the cloth in some harmony. Whenever I visit the room to take out one cold water-bottle from the fridge—cool water is the lady of the night—I see this man with his inhuman straight back, staring right at me. I freeze for a second and then look at his unblinking eyes in the shimmering yellow light of the fridge. You may ask, what is new here? If you were to sleep next to an old shoddy window; sure you’ll see the nearby tree growing out a hand in the beating wind, too.

The difference between you and me, however, is that you get under the covers and say oh, but it is the mere wind, oh, it is the mere rain. I on the other hand, invite the monsters in. I move the refrigerator door just enough to let that tall man’s eye glint in the dark as he sit like he’s been sitting there from the beginning of time. There is an art in conjuring monsters from the nothing. After all the man in my father’s chair is nothing but my dead grandmother’s handbag—not there for sentimental purposes but mostly because things move around in my house with certain amnesia. And in the society we live in, I have become interested in things.

Either people eat them up or some nook drag them down where house-objects retire and dream till their owners are left to do the same in the graves until after all, someone new develops a fancy to these ghosts. Or worst, being munched into paper mache is one way to go. If your things are you, then you better hope you’re not getting picked up for that.

I do that sometimes. I imagine the life of objects fast forward to hundred years. What if there are more survivors than just cockroaches. All these inanimate things that have a sacred river in which they all flow, sometimes caressing each other or other times, singing campfire songs with joined hands. A blue handkerchief wiping off the sweat off a red wallet. Their masters despised each other when they were alive, but here we are.

Rivers into a sea.

A plethora of dead people’s objects. Enough to keep me awake in the dark.

Bygone

 

When a star glides off an old cat’s whiskers

I think of the flowering moon; like a stray pup

Lying meek on my door

I say, Will you be my comrade?

 

They walk upon the scattered clothes of velvet men

They shine like boot polish

And I whisper to the wind

The day has come, I mourn you not

 

There were two sets of men:

One ate words

The other wobbled with alphabets in his liver

 

He ate; he took sleep upon his pill-plough

And dreamt till his collars bled

And left my mouth with a hint of rose-petals

Glamorous things thus, die young.

 

 

Sea songs

Art: Arnold Böcklin, Villa am Meer

In a sea

Larking in Lurking

Melancholia—my sea song

So many subtle screeches

Pluck the weeds out of my hair

I have to be somewhere else

A place with no-one else

Perhaps under the sea

I no longer want to be me

 

I put a hand inside my lungs

Give it a saviour plunge

Let the sorrow leak

Death is a water-imagery

 

Why one must cry, if they should?

To whom they must cry, if indeed they should?

When I cry to a star

The stars don’t see me

They have eyes for million other babies

Sulking

Sucking sweat

Bloody hands and a homeless bed

 

So I said

So I sung

Like the letter ‘S’

I’m an unfinished

infinity.

 

Only sea must–

if it should

Only sea must–

if it could

Absolutely,

dissolve me.

The dismantled me

The day she sat upon midnight,
The dreaming knights growled in pain
Sometimes
Purring
Like one female crickets,
breathing in the warm shadows.

The moment when they cease to be her name
On the fields of soot
enamored by
Lost shoes and cacti,
The night she broke the day.

I have seen her smirk through the windows
A singer of a thousand nights
With glassy eyes
So
Black
As if a pool of midnight
is violet
but with refrain.

I thought about the entity
My heart sighing,
ready.
It was but Keats’s pale throat
French as it suits the occasion

And Voila
As they say,
I found that someone
who could then devour my muse
Along with the
dismantled
Me