That silhouette is a little familiar

When the panic is a blinding red haze,

and the hour flaps like a hollow windsock -

the meanings stand out, crisp, articulate,

above the din and win and lose of days,

in dark silhouette against empty talk.

I’ve recognised the meaning of happiness

from its outline, from a flimsy shadow,

its features indistinct against the wash

and thresh of light, but clear nevertheless

its final form, though the face didn’t show.

I have known it mostly by its absence,

the deeper when the cut’s been the sharpest.

When grief has sliced me small and wide open

I’ve felt it keen within touching distance,

mere feet away, a still shadow at rest.

And in that flare of time I’ve been content

to see its frame and infer what it meant.

Okay, so that's 'happy' done.  January's been a tough month all round.  A good month, therefore, to explore that particular theme. 

February is a Write…Edit…Publish month, sign up's on the 1st. Here are the challenges for 2017, must get thinking soon.  Back of the drawer - might be a good idea to actually pull one open and see what lurks there…who knows where that might lead...

  

Thirteen ways of happy

I

A dewdrop on a blade

and fisheyed reflections

of the entire space

II

A collapsed chrysalis -

the empty casings

of vast possibilities

III

One incomplete sentence

and the story arc

connecting the silence

IV

Coffeefroth that mimicked

hearts before dispersing

as the drinker blinked

V

The absence of full stops

and caps, slow ripening

garbage smell echoes crops

VI

Loosened rhymes jangling

like change in small pockets

of an early morning

VII

Threads of smoke-mist

over the skyline, cities stretching

themselves awake

VIII

Darkness and milky moonlight

the river stumbles on its way

to silver

IX

A fort like a forest canopy

a single tree where

thoughts can sing

X

The little button fruits

in pavement cracks in an

unknown neighbourhood

XI

The wind in the eye

of a needle and through

the mane of a lion

XII

The diamond that turns

out a pebble, speckled like

a birds egg and earth

XIII

The poems that aren’t poems

but you can’t take your

woozy mind off them

Still exploring 'happy,' and personally, nothing like the touch of old Mother Earth for that happiness fix.

Après toi le déluge?

This alone, the depths of afternoon, lunch

prepared and consumed, the repletion paired

with the emptiness of hours, offhand warmth -

somewhere in it - contentment is layered.

I know you can’t forget the avalanche

forecast for tomorrow, nothing halts midair,

not a single snowflake can be turned, changed,

persuaded to retreat or fall elsewhere -

every drop and flake reaches where it’s meant.

But today a pale faced sun lies languid

on the stubs of grass beyond, no portent

mars the skies, the road runs quiet on the grid

and streams and times are silvery, quite fluid.

No grand sweeps, happiness is a moment.

There seems to be some sort of epidemic of French titles around here, I've no idea why or where that's come from.  I do NOT speak a word of French, much as I am fascinated by French stuff (that's art and short stories and long stories and food and beverage mostly, before anyone gets any ideas...)

All this month I am trying to write 'happy' and failing generally. However, I have managed to steer clear of exclamations.  And emoticons as well.  Serious success. That's happiness enough for the time being, I can live with that.

At the Corniche

They are far out, walking the promenade;

and returning flamingos group in the bay -

the pulsing reflections of pink and grey

are an echo from sunsets past, the mud

exposed at low tide, shimmery with facades

of buildings and a too early neon ad.

A woman runs, the winds billows her robes,

tugs her scarf askew, the last sunlight probes

contours of waves and time, breathes and shreds

itself on lampposts, glow-in-the-dark keypads,

headlights, taillights, sodium yellow and red.

There are small spaces carved for fluorescent

twilight shades, the impossibly transient.

The father and son, small figures are dotted

on the grey paved concrete thread far ahead.

Content isn’t concrete, corniches, rooms;

it’s just a minute to feel the continuum.




Still trying to pin down definitions of happy and happiness. I know it when I see it - unmistakeable. Have a happy week ahead.

Bonjour Bonheur

Hello Happiness! Hello, Stranger!

I knew I’d recognise you straight off

even though we’ve never met – it’s been rough

for the longest time, yet I wonder

if you’ve had it smooth? as smooth as you’d like?

It can’t be easy putting on that smile

day after day, pick a base, decide

where to stay put, when to go; mostly life

upends the anchors when least expected.

Humans make poor hosts, their own innate drive

is to prod things. They compel you to leave.

Are you happy with being a nomad?

I at least have the thin pretence

of freedom, and love of this existence.

I don't do resolutions but I started the year with a vague sort of goal - 'minimal exclamation marks' and well, that didn't last long, did it? :) Shot to pieces ten days in.  And even when the prompt is 'happy' - yes, the real actual word - and I start out determined to write something upbeat and positive and merry..... aaargh! No pen control. So frustrating. Is it just me? :)

Maybe I should add emoticons on the minimal list too...on second thoughts...

In my house there are a hundred half-done poems

All of these poems unfinished, spaces crammed

full of half-uttered words, inert, tongue tied.

Interrupted windows, staircases jammed

with mindless tics and turns and asides,

with untaken steps to retrace, strengths untried

to fling the whole purpose away, start again.

Nothing feels it’s honed to a polished end,

tightened so well that it won’t spring open

next season, at the touch of buttons. Fattened

enough for blades. Lean enough to be deadened.

A hundred of them precarious, unravelled -

each memory in its groove wrongly filed;

some thumbsore, others ignored, mishandled.

The woods and cells and walls poorly styled,

imperfect the rhymes and rugs, unreconciled.

Nothing finds a closure in a short lifetime -

the entire house left open by a crack of rhyme.

First thing in the morning today I read about Om Puri passing away, and the title line which is from a famous Mary Oliver poem called 'Thinking of Swirler' flashed into my mind. And that line kind of ambled into this poem. A sonnet-ish form of my own, with an extra line after each quatrain. Fattened, if you like, ready for the blade.

'Each of us leaves an unfinished life.' Indeed.  Om Puri was a favourite in my cine-going days in Delhi, when I frequented the Indian Panorama at the film festivals, because they were the cheaper tickets - available for two-three rupees each.  The foreign films too of course, as many as I could afford. Om Puri was starting out those days, and rose to a major force in Indian Parallel Cinema. I remember some mesmerising performances by him - Aakrosh, Ardh Satya, Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron, Sadgati, he was flawless in every film. 

As I left India mid-nineties, my relationship with Indian Cinema became a little distant subsequently.  I haven't watched any of his later films, but I have followed his career. Beyond saddened at his passing, and a little shaken too - has the loss of Western artistes that characterised all of 2016 somehow infected India now?? 

Mr Puri, you will be sorely missed.

Smileworthy

Festivals that seep into rooms

somehow by osmosis;

faraway strains of childhood tunes;

streamers peeping through mists;

a rainbow in a small oil slick,

preserved daisies in books;

flamingos clustered close and thick

somewhere behind the souqs.

The gentle turns of planets, years,

seamless the season’s bends,

the random points marked on a sphere

for beginnings and ends.

Wishing all here a fun, creative and positive 2017.  I got an email greeting which said 'may your happiness break all previous records' and I'm shamelessly plagiarising that. Record breaking levels of joy - that's my wish for you this year. Stay blissful, stay well.