The aromatic roots in a tangle,
tug deep through breasts to ochre
space between ribs. Is earth same as
soil? Time differentiates one from
other. Drum beats as sand decants
into crevices between molars to hairy
growths drawn tensile down jaw line
where Y of vocal cords silence at throat.
Time holds her like a hand at the throat
when brass pot goes into the mouth of a well.
Words hang to the rope, distended into sounds –
slurps and gurgles that surface through saliva
poured into a glass on the table. Clear water
decanted of desire, fire of longing. As the sun
slices her face in the shadows of warmed bricks
phlegm threads in the food she brings out
slowly, laboured like this poem- words chunking,
spasmodic, taking her breath away in the effort.
Silence cannot be shredded
by the noises of birds,
each picking through the forest
a life its own.
It’s an effort to sit on the bark,
draw signs in air,
watch vapour from river rise
in a breath.
Light in sharp slant slices water.
In between rocks
time drowns, day silences
in deliberate chants.
* Vana, in Indian languages, means forest.
Sun in the field throws no shadow
it consumes the earth in its energy
the day pulsates in stillness
the way dreams leave no noise
the centre of chamber is radiant
and atoms jostle in muted excitement.
Poem A Day
Inspired by the line ‘mind is bright, clear of sound’ from ‘The Cold Mountain’ by Hanshan.
The glass holds the sunlight
in that unchanging instant
when birds empty their chest of songs.
The shadow remains frozen
in that perfect minute
when not a slant of life breathes.
Loops of letters drown in the river
in that whirlpool
when algae of silence wraps my heart.
Poem A Day
I unfurl the leaf, serrated edges
are questions that fall limp like offerings.
Words sit in corners, their shadows lengthening
into startling ghosts. The tar at the bottom
sticky, holds my voice in total dumbness.
On the table I place pain polished with love;
allow me a prayer – sound flutters to the sky
leaving earth in a cave of quietness.
Then the orange noise of my soul sets flight
following an arc skewed from your axis.
Art by S H Raza
These words that collect like seeds
and crawl on paper,
what are they, you asked.
A girdle of light slid into you
as you gathered the grains,
the slits of gold .
When your fingers paused between
ears of corn, cells in my body
sighed from the bamboo thicket
where shadows deepened
with your silence.
Write a poem a day, NaPoWriMo 2013
“Stalks of Bamboo by a Rock” (1347) by Wu Zhen