how cruel
to hang the fluttering heart
in windy purpose from sapless branches
Bare from season's ceaseless care.
The sudden view
too wide ,too xquisite
in its painful beauty
Heartless to
awake a yearning whose birth is
the recognition of freedom,
But whose life learns conscious waiting for it’s end.
Callous to change horizons
on thoughtless impulse from four walls to four winds.
To teach through casual surprise that even small hearts beat hard
against their cage of bones
Reckless to tempt those wings
with visions of soaring-- the dust of a hundred miles alive in tangent gusts.
Foolish to underestimate the will of the sparrow
She plots. Her schemes like song are borne to One who knows-- And counts her dear.
The listening apparatus
Is silent –
Ahead of sound –
Your eyes gush
Like awakened
Blake.
From: kolkata, west bengal, India
About me: What would I be saying If I said, ‘The sky is true’? Would the dream pass more slowly If I lowered my voice, bassooned my vowels? No end to wonder, I find, And the evening mist is still. I talk in allegory when I speak to myself. I walk up the hill – my spirits rise. The process ‘saying’ again Is always about itself, about something Other than its content Its statement and assertion. I reach with every word For the truth of what I find— I miss and then I say something else. The reader, myself included, Gets only the altered after-saying. Where is the sky in all this--? The measure wavers – the link is broken – Disturbed, a trial of what is, Wanders, palpitates, grows worn In its youth— Like a design by William Morris Or brothel in Joyce’s arcane language.
