wads of steam evolve slowly on the skyway
and the lake mirrors them ,paints neatly the maple's lock
fresh and saucy like a girl's haircut
whipped by the wind and greedy of scarlet leaves
over there,the mountains:granite-secure.
it seems sugar ,the snows dressing them with light
and i wud fly up there,were i a raider hawk
but i am on my way, now ,with the fear of falling down
and i dont know if its the gentle breath of magnolias
this morning to unveil me so weak
or its just a thought that like violin easily moves and deludes.......
and i already hear u laughing
disarmingly,with those two water eyes
u have kindled on me
p.s:this ones for u tathagata
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.
