WIP - Part of a long poem
Rhythm: Tap, Cling, Tap, Tap, Lapse.
The empty vase lacked the glory of voluminous red roses – so they
filled it up, with a dozen
of red. In Eastern cultures, similar large jars are used for
pickled fruits. Bright and brown, almost olive, fruit preserved in natural oils.
Time attached to things and Places. Food, flowers. Culture travels through your
feet, the journey you make. Eliot’s magi Were pilgrims. Every breath is a pilgrimage,
reverential, feared too. Pour some water into your vases so the flowers won’t
wither away, use the flower food that came with the dozen. Dozen – one of those
words with a feeling, a brazen sonorous hum. Nature to hand-made, akin to the
flow of time. Sheepish wind can bring stranger aromas, relinquished languages, and grained stances, in a way meddling. If
those ignorant feet stepped into puddles – there would be splashes, sounds, and
stains - by-products of journeys. Flowers become proclivities turned into
meditations of loss and learning, some bespoke knowledge wide open for
interpretations. Awareness a burden, for heaving chests.
Rhythm: Lapse, Tap, Cling, Tap, Tap.
An inconsequential post-rain night, the neighborhood gone
quiet, no droning of fans, no music from televisions. Radios gone quiet for the
night. Crickets – incessant sounds, swelling up to the blue, dark blue, bluer expanse.
Almost eight and forty, but a memory like some vain lunacy refuses to die. Eight
and forty, but the number is a made-up notion. The blind won’t go all the way
down, an opportunistic light peers through frosty glass. Her ways are brisk, but
strangely her smile idles on my mind in a luscious way, those hazel green eyes
with all the power to fetch in arousal – not absolute but a distinct
possibility. Bereft of senses, pushing aside the sane – the right thing to do.
More far than close, as abstract as it could be. Who is to say -- that finding something
at random is foretellable?
Rhythm: Lapse, Tap, Cling, Cling, Cling, Cling, Tap.
The sense of failing underwrites sermons of loss and
findings. A fantastical tale of molecules, the energy an unwavering constant.
Anant Dhavale
