All through this month and 24/7

 

III.

If I had nine lives, like a cat, I would hold

more pens and placards, be a bit less bothered

with hemlines and hats, people’s different thresholds.

Give silence its due too, be less awed by words.

Though I’d look at the hollow made by your head

in the cushion, I’d still want to write sonnets

starting and ending with you whether you read

them or not. And I’d almost never forget

passwords. Maybe try being an accountant

in some life midway – if it suited better

I’d stay in it for the rest, I’m reluctant

to change for the sake of it. Write more letters

by hand, use them more mindfully in all nine

and each time, I’d still want yours to hold in mine.

~^~*~^~*~^~

Last November I wrote a series of nine poems in which I explored the theme of love and posted a couple of those at the time. I'll be putting some of the others up here through out this month as I celebrate the same in all its myriad shapes and sizes. And mid-month we are starting off with the first Write...Edit...Publish...Challenge, a new look site and prompts based on movie magic, what's not to love, right?

~^~*~^~*~^~

In the Hindu belief system - and I might as well tell you at the outset, I am no expert on it, it is held that death doesn't part the souls of a wedded pair, their union is said to persist for seven lifetimes. The whole system is predicated - not on a single life and then eternal rest but reincarnations through many births and many deaths and some bonds lasting for more than one cycle. I'm quite happy with that part. Personally, I'll take the same pairing for the next however many lives I have to go through, no issues with that.

Whether a soul gets reborn or not depends on the weight of the sins, its karma, accumulated in a previous life. If it leads a sin free life, then it gets free of the eternal cycle of birth and death and unites with the cosmic soul and is absorbed into an Absolute Bliss. It doesn't have to come back to earth to suffer any pain. Earth is referred to as Martaloka or the domain of death while where the soul goes once it is freed is called Amritaloka and Anandaloka - the space of deathlessness/ecstasy. All material things are an illusion, earthly bonds hold the soul back, the smart thing in this given system is naturally  to detach pronto and hurry to that blissful cosmic union asap. 

In short, the belief is that life on earth is generally a pain in the neck and the sooner one can escape it the better, the greater the part of eternity the soul can spend in perfect communion with the One, in perfect bliss. That first part I'm not so cool with - earth seems a good enough space to me, and being in a human body does not feel as horrible as it's made out to be - death, attachment, grief, suffering, all the nonsense and violence going on in the world notwithstanding. I mean, I'm not knocking absolute bliss, moksha, detachment  or anything, they may well be as super awesome as the sacred texts promise. Only that I don't think this entire earthly existence needs to be so thoroughly trashed, that's all.  It can be mildly enjoyable here too, at times, no harm in admitting that. The planet's breath taking, being human can be quite alright too, there's love and kindness and inspiration and all kinds of other goodies, so c'mon, ditch the nonstop negativity already.... Just saying. 

Here's to a mildly enjoyable week and life on earth in general. To your February and mine. May all conflicts be gobbled up by the forces of love everywhere. 

Long valentine

There are deeper loves apart from humans,
the burnished copper of the sinking suns,
the sound of spinning wheels on laterite,
and heels on mud - the primal connections.

The acacias in their fortresses of thorns,
the smell of raindrops on the guinea corn,
the needlepoint of stars upon the night
on homing traffic and a faint air horn.

A love much deeper than skin-deep or flesh-, 
beyond the frames of every consciousness,
the instinct by which a leaf turns to light,
innate, intrinsic to its life process.

Carried over from each birth and rebirth
this long valentine to the sun and earth.

Valentine II

I can still feel the drizzle of your fingers

soft as the sea-sand on my face and hair;

some things are gone, it’s now many winters

the fallen leaves are banked in many layers;

there’s half an empty eggshell in the pond

floating next to the water hyacinth;

some kind of plastic scum in faded blonde

choking the small concrete steps and the plinth,

the bricks crumble gently and grow their cracks

and lure in grass and a banyan sapling;

but I can still feel the rain on their backs -

your hands don’t change unlike the other things.

And yes, this is where I’ve chosen to stand

surrender again to rain and your hands.

Totally off-topic, for those interested in my safari pics - there's a video clip in the sidebar. And maybe it's not all that off-topic either, plenty grass at any rate.

Leftover Rain

No hearts, no crosses

no gifts, no glyphs,

no trips, no roses,

nothing to spend

except a turn of staunchest shoulder,

and this leftover rain.

I have for you in liningskins

a flicker of red, and green

and in the pureed perfumepot

a curl of smell rising;

the deep caverns of words are still

speckled with fat ladybirds

come pick them up, feel them breathe

brush the leaves and feel them move

ever so slightly, ever so slight

loosen the hammock of strings of silk

holding this leftover rain.

It's been raining non-stop in Bahrain, the impromptu football field next to my home is flooded, the roads have been waterlogged, never seen anything like this here - pouring in the desert. Enjoyed the incessantly glisteny roads and surroundings, everything this last week came with the patina of reflections - glorious! What an amazing gift of the mundane to celebrate!

I am off most of this week - the old breathing apparatus needs some fixing - so I'm flat out and blogless, no phones, no gizmos in the hospital. But can take pen and paper in, always my loyalest and bestest of allies. I'll catch up with you as soon as I get back.  Meanwhile, stay well and have the loveliest of weeks!

It's not a Valentine thing either

Love is such a short, thin and threadbare word,

so frequently used that it’s hardly heard.

I’ll love you more than you will ever know,

I’ll love you without threadbare being uttered.

Without the scents of flowers and of sandal,

without the showy moths and central candle.

I think I’ll love you but let the trite go

I won’t fashion your name into a ghazal.

Yet if someone should come upon my page

when I’m gone - in some future space and age -

he would know that the writer, long ago,
had loved beyond the limits of her language.

Loveweak again

Love is the sky, love is the sea,

as soft as earth, as dark as be,

as high as hills, as deep as spells,

a heartbreak maze and storm gospels;

it’s quiet as a mystic trance

and heady as a game of chance

with a poker pro in long shirtsleeves.

It’s whimsy of windblown leaves;

as prison scarred and hard as nails

and fragile as mermaid tales.     

Love’s sand in hand and birds in bush

but steely when shove comes to push.

It’s seagull call and eagle eyed

snake instinct done ivory wide.

It’s all eggshells in one basket

and a shaky bike to the market.

Love’s tart as lime, as monsoon grey

striped skypearl like a nacre day,

talk’s cheap white chalk, love’s ashes pink

tougher to brush off than you think.

Love’s needle thin, hope thick as sleep,

easier to give, harder to keep.

Loveweak III

love me as though you’ve loved and lost before -

unzip me along my backbone, undo

and smooth down the silk of flesh and sinew

love me as though you could not love me more

love me like it is your very first time

as though you’ve never loved, nor suffered loss

as if love does not fade, it only grows

untainted by grief, supreme and sublime

love me as if we’ve neither been heartsore

disrobe me of these outer skin membranes

splay me open and kiss the pulsing veins

school yourself for the scars you will ignore

or love me as if the wounds that were once mine

were meant as gifts for you, my valentine

Loveweak II

the most loving don’t breathe a word of love

in odd lateral threads that dumbly snake

out of nostrils and back, somewhere above

the sore pinhead of years of stuck mistakes

know them by the coolness of their shadow,

by their gentle hands, and palms of leaf shapes

cupped into a mudmoon, incandescent glow

of a million lampborn miniature landscapes

the seahorse ribbons in the oceans of time

the razor coral thorns, barbed as dreamnails

tear the blooddark spaces of valentines

tear up frozen endbuds of limplove tales

the most loving don’t breathe and speak lovebuds

just smooth the disturbed nap of velvet blood

Loveweak I

did my love merit marks - commas, full stops
did it fuel business, make rhymes flow quicker
magic freedom into crystallised hope,
weekend loveshot irises, did it flicker

once in your blingflamed veins and quietly die?

or was it a recurring decimal
sung offkey though holy, strung through your “I”
candied on your tongue like a capital

pulped in your bone in the sponge of marrows?

it asked no marks from me, I can tell you
safely, nothing punctuation, no close
and no throat grabbing start, I never knew

what begun and if it’s finished with me yet

it gave no period at this close of sonnet

You know it anyway

Time again for re-telling, there’s nothing new to say

and that too feels fine, the melted blanket comfort,
the same tangy taste of faint peppermint words
the great affirmation of an everyday cliché.
And I have loved you so, that I have given away
every puff of breath, and each spike and spurt
of billowing delight, likewise the cracked hurt
till the heart is zilch, and zilch is halfway
to some infinity, unseen and unheard,
to some stone-etched heaven dancing inert;
a temple by an ocean trapped into being a bay
and everything is itself yet fluidly converts,
wriggles into a symbol, into a fully figured
thing of flesh and blood, yet too of foam and spray.