Their sacred Goddess is back again
With grass flowers now showing up
Inside the river across dry sand bed.
A pristine body forms in white mud.
The dark maker has sullied his hands
As they shine against her whiteness.
Her many arms are stubs in reverse
With weapons yet to be put in them.
A fierce tiger is in making in a corner.
But the demon is yet to be conceived.
In plaster of Paris, a good takes shape
Earlier to fashion and shape than evil
With its several shades and tonalities
So difficult to create in a white purity.
There is a poem of scorpion
That slinks away after biting.
Mother lies in pain on floor,
Inside mud walls in shadow.
Insect peasants work a buzz.
God works in night’s corner.
My own night has snakebite.
A real snake would bite ma,
A night I had slept through,
Men swarming and buzzed.
I would only hear next day,
Night of snake had passed.
Unlike in city poet’s poem,
Snakebite was real in night,
But the mantras saved ma.
God lives in night’s corner.
Mother is saved in a poem
As well as in child’s reality.
(after reading a poem Night of the Scorpion by Nissim Ezekiel)
Silence is all ,the stone phallus in the hills
Snug in the cave ,a light from earth lamp
A blue and dusted god with river in hair
And a moon no longer super, far from us.
Words are his dreams, god in snow hills,
A god submerged in the river of his wife.
He interrupted us ,smiling,
In our endless daydreams,
An earth would come alive
Where stone feet touched .
Thick conical stone leaves
Intertwined with his torso
Hid a splendid nakedness
From that sleeping world.
We felt small, in our flesh,
When an earth came alive.
( The statue of Gomateswara , a Jain saint stands tall at Shravanabelagola in Karnataka- the world’s biggest monolithic statue constructed in the 10th century )
Yesterday’s Golconda was the rhizome
That would make it a new green verse,
From a poem lost in transient memory.
The shepherd’s mountain hosted ghosts
Over matchstick sounds across bushes.
Today it is back again dreaming out of.
We better exorcise female ghosts from it.
They are a flesh turned stone with men.
Their sleeping tombs are cold with past.
Bodies were covered in a male darkness
And their stomachs homes to male egos.
Now they are in the same stone as men.
Let us make bricks to our understanding
From the foot slush of a twelve year old
In Peru or Orissa, not one with the i-pad.
Bricks are so much like the sleek i-pads
Gleaming in yellow bus, in school bags
On backs weighed down by knowledge.
The brick slush feels soft on child’s feet
Ankle -deep in the earth mother’s love.
Let us make bricks to an understanding.
(about the child laborers employed in brick kilns of India and Peru)
From train window one saw audio tape
With songs ripped from broken player
Unheard by any one’s new ears for CD’s.
The train would go on like running tape
That lay curled in a passing paddy field
With bird up and down on phone wires.
Some time, a mild journey had to stop.
Songs would stop to play , birds freeze.
Drizzles would pour like bodies of flies.