The Dancer Asks

And let me dánce, Natarāja*
to the rhythm of your drum;
and let me flów, Natarāja,
like Gangé* from your locks;
and let my límbs spread smóothly
and my waíst slide shyly
and my ánklets tinkle
and my brácelets jingle
and my sáree rustle
to the echóes of your drum*.


(written in 2015)

Glossary:

1. naṭarāja — literally, king of dance but perhaps better translated as ‘Lord of Dance’. An appellation of Shiva’s, one of Hinduism’s major gods. His dance – the cosmic tāṇḍava – can be various and can signal both creation and destruction. The joyful form of his dance is the ānanda tāṇḍava.

2. gangé — the way Gangā, Hindu culture’s most sacred river, is written and pronounced in Kannada. Here’s some more detail about the mythology concerning Shiva and Gangé.

3. drum — the ḍamaru is Shiva’s “drum”, one he uses to keep time during his cosmic tāṇḍava. A mythological story tells of how the letters of the Sanskrit alphabet are the sounds that emerged from Shiva’s drum as he danced his dance of creation.

Lament

My words of verse are not like ráin
stréaming from a water-burdened cloud;
nor like the blossom on the vine-tip
that fálls and reaches the ground
despite the absence of a wind.
Nor like the green ringlet that peeps
out from the seed-born stem;
nor even like the little bird
whose wings outspread
of their own accórd.
I seek instead for similes,
search nature with deliberate eyes,
(wearing a poet’s disguise),
to find and praise what must
be praised; what does not rust
(with words that I to rhyme entrust).
Yet all the while I wish so much
to write like I were heaven-touched.


(written ca. September 2015)

For more about the poem, see notes.

I want my poetry

to be as real as the fight between hot-headed boys
who are really truly angry;

to speak the language of the street
and the music of the flute
(and even mix them cleverly);

to learn to walk before it learns to run;

to run with the rhythm
and hunt with the rhyme –
idiomatically;

to echo – sound – resound
and then move on rather than wait
until a rhyming word comes by;

to look around and see
the tree – the dog – the smoking man – the fly
(and simply smile and let them be);

to play with English like a favourite toy –
(wind it up and send it forth
then leap in front and change its path
because it wants a rhyme for bath);

to see the world through others’ eyes –
then, opening its own, seek originality;

to be best friends with the dictionary;

to learn to wait,
to learn that it need not hurry;

to metaphor and simile
(but if it can’t, then just to say
the sky is blue and blood is red);

to sign a clause of non-compete
with other poetry
(and be so many different ships
upon a plural seas);

to feel it’s free to turn to prose
when it wants a break or clarity;

to skip article –
unironically

to go out in the sun and feel its warmth
and simply stretch all lazily;

to try its best to find
its way to self-express
and when it’s done (or hasn’t done) –
sleep happily;

to be simple and straight and free
(and shun the comfort of trickery);

to know that it’s all right to
watch the moon’s light silently;

to find a way to make Kannada Englishy –
and English a kannaḍi*

to make sure to think for itself –
and not just jump into chaḷuvaḷis*;

to know that poetry, like knowledge,
is replenished
by giving and by taking;

to speak the truth it knows,
to feel lucky to be free;

to be and being make me
be.


(written in Feb 2020)

Glossary:

1. kannaḍi — the word for “mirror” in Kannada

2. chaḷuvaḷi — a Kannada word with meanings like agitation, revolution, movement, etc.

He Dreams of Dreaming

Spine straight as pine, breath slight as breeze, he sits
at ease, legs folded like some ancient sage.
He dreams of all the world’s infinities
that men of every age have tried to gauge.

Once wild as toppling cataract,
his mind’s now tranquil as a tree;
but to reach for eternity, he knows
those grand, sinuous roots must be set free.

Light floods over light as the mind dissolves
into an oyster-pearly, sea-foam white;
The soundless skies embrace the sounding seas
and all his eyes can see is bright.

Something wákes and walks him to the shore;
he strides now on the bottom of the sea.


(written in 2012)

For more about the poem, see notes.

Upon a Winter Morning’s Walk

A solitary crow alights upon
the half-torn branch of the broken tree;
cawing to a misted winter morning
blooming silently into its glory.

A rustle; the frightened crow flies off
the half-torn branch of the broken tree,
and its rising wing brushes a leaf
that does not know how tò be free.

The fallen leaf will wet and wither
beneath the winter’s sun and rain,
but that black crow that flies the skies
will never léarn what it has done.

But a little squirrel that saw it all
will plant a treasured nut when it is spring,
and a tree will open beautifully
with the leaf that fell from the crow’s black wing.


(written ca. early 2012)

For more about the poem, see notes.

Cryptic Conceit

The wounded angel on the koel’s wing’s
carrying the dregs of Shakuni’s spring;
spilling tears for the processing dead,
all reclining in the wake of the lead.
The soundless fall of the crashing tree,
a bed of arrows for a costly fee,
whispered words of good intent
squeeze-drying all the energy spent.
And in the end a poem pure,
sung like a chant both clear and sure,
that even to this day resounds
from the depths of the deep heart’s fertile grounds.


(begun ca. 2009, finished ca. 2012)

For more about the poem, see notes.

 

Upon A Tree

I cast my gaze upon a crooked tree
and run my eyes over its withered,
sun-burned skin.
I cannot tell how old it is.
Above its faded, scoured waist it forks,
two weather-sculpted limbs emerge.
How motionless its body broken, how
green the spring around it.
I suppose that it is dead
this headless shape of wood.
Within, the sap lies still, stiffened
by unsoft time that lays to waste all majesty.

Below, perhaps, away from prying eyes like mine,
dendritic roots spread out in spidery webs;
entombed within the quiet of the earth
they patiently await new birth.


(written ca. mid 2015)

For more about the poem, see notes.

An Afternoon’s Reverie

Turn the heavens upside down,
see the sun spin on the ground.
Watch the moon play on the sea,
see the waters circle round
and Indra* topple from his throne,
fall at Vishwāmitra’s* feet;
and thousand-hooded Sēsha* arch
his yogic body forth to meet
boy-Krishṇa* and his singing flute.


(written ca. mid 2015)

For more about the poem, see notes.

Glossary:

1. Indra (in-draah): The king of the Gods, who lives in swarga (swur-gaah), or heaven.

2. Vishwāmitra (wish-waah-myth-raah): A king who through mighty tapasya (heat-radiating meditation) attempts to become a rishi (poet-seer) of the highest order. The puraa-s (tales of Hindu mythology) relate an interesting story where Indra (with the help of the rishi Vasishṭha) and Vishwāmitra duel; a duel that ends in a stalemate and leaves king Trishaṅku suspended between the earth and sky.

3. Sēsha (shay-shaah), also known as Ādisēsha: A fabulous thousand-hooded serpent of Hindu mythology on which Vishnu – popularly considered the “preserver” among the trinity of Vishu, Shiva and Brahma – and his consort, Lakshmi, recline. Sēsha himself lies on the ಕ್ಷೀರಸಾಗರ, or kshīra-sāgara, the Ocean of Milk. (cf. Jörmungandr of Norse mythology.)

4. Krisha (crish-ṇá): A most popular deity in the Hindu pantheon. His boyhood and youth are supposed to have been spent in Vrindāvan, where he passed his time caroling on his flute and flirting with the adoring gōpi-s (cowherdesses).

 

A Prayer For Those Who Remain

Let death be like the chocolàte
that fálling bitter on the tongue
swèetens into jaggery.
Let death be like the spreading light
that fáding in the windy storm
flòwers up into the sky.
Let death be like the lotused lake
that wílting in the dusty drought
retúrns in a flood of rain.
Let death be like the paddy field
that drówning in a tidal high
ríses as the hárvest’s grain.


(written ca. late 2015)

For more about the poem, see notes.

 

One Autumn Evening

I fell asleep upon the earth
lighted by the morning sun;
when I awoke, it was evening,
the horses of the sun were gone.
I rubbed sleep from my sleepy eyes
that I might watch the colouring light;
then suddenly it was upon me,
the blue, the black, the sacred night.
It spread itself across the sky
like the bird that is always free;
it moved like a ghostly whisper
from autumned tree to tree.
The ripened leaves were giving back
their burnished-twilight-flare
and the fires of the evening stars
had lit the aqueous air.
I remember as I slept again
the fragrance of the furlèd flower;
above the earth, beneath the sky,
rejoicing in the magic hour.
The sun came up next morning
as on unnumbered days before;
but I awoke with a shiver
as though on a cold, cold shore.


(written ca. early 2010, revised ca. 2012)

For more about the poem, see notes.