In my apron

Poppy field by van Gogh, 1890. Image credit

I will not let this snow cover

of violence deaden my world

into breathless radio silence.

I will not let sandpaper words,

the hard, wind-tossed hearts of vandals,

swamp out the daisies and poppies

when and where it’s spring. I’ll let drifts

of leaves fall wherever they want,

weave against this doorsill in autumn.

I’ll pluck huge bouquets of hope,

keep them massed in my apron

like secret talismans. From the red

wildfires of poppies I’ll pick them,

and from the red, dead leaf banks.

I’ll walk miles of cheerful wildflowers

and the sky’ll sew its own linings

overhead in gold and silvershine.

And the sharp-spiralled razor wires

won’t stop a single leaf. Or stop me

from holding the flaming bunches

in the crook of my torn elbows.

***

In praise of some violence

Dusty and unscheduled and unlit

Lately, I have given up forced schedules -

of voices and gravity, unbroken rules

governing when the windows might open,

when they must shut, when words must be spoken,

a life of finite couplets and modules.

I’ve let the door stand ajar in dust-storms

I’ve piped in dreams of sand and low landforms,

orchestras of fallen leaves, autumn-coloured.

Led merry festivals of haphazard

words into worlds far away from their homes.

And I’ve also let my voice go back to sleep -

the freedom that’s in silence is for keeps,

and when it’s finally woken up again,

I’ve asked it to hold its breath and just listen

to chuckling rivers, to candles as they weep.

The winds have blown out my lamps, and unlit

they stood for whole Diwalis, not just minutes.

Their darkness and their beauty were unsurpassed.

Forget small flames, even stars do not last.

I’ve come across a darkness that’s infinite.

If you’ve stopped here by chance and wondered why

the door’s unlatched, the golden dust’s knee-high -

well, now you know the reason: I’m not absent

I am only doing what I was meant

to do: be still and let all things pass by.