Friday, 19 August 2011

Lavender Lotus

On a tremor-clad day
Of acid flashbacks,
You hear velvet footsteps
Walking down violet halls.

You follow the smell
And find rose-strewn trails,
That lead from
Room to room
And begin when they stop.

You taste laced peppermint
And lilac dreams
When you follow the sounds
And they lead you to you,
Turning into strawberry echoes.

As silver  raindrops paint
Your window panes moist
And damp mushrooms swell,
Your shadow snails up to you
From dark blue alleyways of pain...

Thursday, 18 August 2011

The Months ~ Linda Pastan


Contorted by wind,
mere armatures for ice or snow,
the trees resolve
to endure for now,

they will leaf out in April.
And I must be as patient
as the trees—
a winter resolution

I break all over again,
as the cold presses
its sharp blade
against my throat.


After endless
on the windowsill,
the orchid blooms—

embroidered purple stitches
up and down
a slender stem.
Outside, snow

melts midair
to rain.
Abbreviated month.
Every kind of weather.


When the Earl King came
to steal away the child
in Goethe’s poem, the father said
don’t be afraid,

it’s just the wind. . .
As if it weren’t the wind
that blows away the tender
fragments of this world—

leftover leaves in the corners
of the garden, a Lenten Rose
that thought it safe
to bloom so early.


In the pastel blur
of the garden,
the cherry
and redbud

shake rain
from their delicate
shoulders, as petals
of pink

wash down the ditches
in dreamlike
rivers of color.


May apple, daffodil,
hyacinth, lily,
and by the front
porch steps

every billowing
shade of purple
and lavender lilac,
my mother’s favorite flower,

sweet breath drifting through
the open windows:
perfume of memory—conduit
of spring.


The June bug
on the screen door
whirs like a small,
ugly machine,

and a chorus of frogs
and crickets drones like Musak
at all the windows.
What we don’t quite see

comforts us.
Blink of lightning, grumble
of thunder—just the heat
clearing its throat.


Tonight the fireflies
light their brief
in all the trees

of summer—
color of moonflakes,
color of fluorescent

where the ocean drags
its torn hem
over the dark


and sun-dazed,
I bite into this ripe peach
of a month,

gathering children
into my arms
in all their sandy

my table each night
with nothing
but corn and tomatoes.


Their summer romance
over, the lovers
still cling
to each other

the way the green
leaves cling
to their trees
in the strange heat

of September, as if
this time
there will be
no autumn.


How suddenly
the woods
have turned
again. I feel

like Daphne, standing
with my arms
to the season,

by color, crowned
with the hammered gold
of leaves.


These anonymous
leaves, their wet
bodies pressed
against the window

or falling past—
I count them
in my sleep,
absolving gravity,

absolving even death
who knows as I do
the imperatives
of the season.


The white dove of winter
sheds its first
fine feathers;
they melt

as they touch
the warm ground
like notes
of a once familiar

music; the earth
shivers and
turns towards
the solstice.

Friday, 12 August 2011

Sonnets on a Tabletop

Eyes reflected in dark, shadowy pools
Glistening; like yesterday’s tears.
Pensive, stubborn, swirling like those
Dumb moths around a flame.
Dreams breaking standard roads
Building new alleyways of pain;
Like smoke from the just-lit stick,
Taking different paths every time.
Will you remember, lover,
Or will you forget?
Those questions, those words,
Those sunsets, those moons-rise?

Like yesterday, like today,
Like today, so tomorrow…

Monday, 8 August 2011

To Manipal

You come to me in a wave of the sea; throwing me off-balance and filling my nose and mouth with heavy salty water. You come to me in the hot, humid air of sunsets; slapping my face like a baby’s sloppy kisses. Hot and humid, like night-time tales. You come to me in evenings of nude, lewd green; splattered so luxuriously that it seems lecherous.

You come to me when, least expecting, I await someone else. And you whisk me away, like a moth by a flame, like clichéd expressions of love, hot and sweaty.

I try and remain guarded, building walls around, building fortresses around, to bottle myself in and you out. And yet, you find me, exposed and vulnerable, and get at me with your cold, clammy fingers. You, Manipal, come and get me on sunset evenings all the time…

Tuesday, 2 August 2011

On Shell Scripts

In darkened rooms
With scent-laden heavy air;
Your smell, all-pervading,
Like coffee fumes of black.

Here the wizard chants,
Like goldfish showing off tails.
Lines printed in shell scripts,
Poetry from cat files.

Expressions of regularity
Strung from unwoven threads,
Songs of the sea in shells
Their echoes nullifying tidal waves.

Psychedelic swastikas in
Blue and orange, fontless;
Like silent audience,
Like the symbology of love…