computing darkness,authentic brain;
you are so experimental in sadness:
you find new ways to make yourself sad,
you lecture without notes.
we are creative students stranded
in a boring hall,boring teachers,
only the subject interests us
yet we end up learning only
through the way of misinterpreting
and coming to know from other arts
to combine what we have.
asylum of studies each human brain is,
the brain that is often worded as heart;
science is romantic,it has oxytocin-
science is futile,we outgrow it all the time.
science is dead. we bring it back to life
to serve our boredom,
to continue searching by never approving-
perhaps we should all be mid ages farmers,
sleeping at six after dinner;
the sun sets and we settle in bed,
we make children,
we make future,
we allow future to have a chance
at making children,
and children no future to make
future of their own.
we live in past when we say we are new-
we are old,always old,we change
but we are never new.
the new ones are the ones ready to break
and mature into old;
when will we learn that?
only one lamp burns of us
and only a pool of oil;
we work around it
and our fire dances
out of shape,
warming each night into sleep.
i wonder when the vultures feast,
do they hope for their next meal?
i wonder when lions feed on
what their harem provide,
do they feel proud,or just loved?
i wonder when frogs
gave up swimming
and try leaping for better ponds:
do they look inside the water
to see their new green skin?
i wonder what we have
that animals don't.
we have nothing,friends,
we have old things in new images,
and communicated in such a way
we forget the ways silence connect.
In this village of minions-
we seal our thoughts away,
trying to be something we aren't-
how despicable you say.
the white rat that is larger than life
clamping down on the fragile roses,
to find weed that glows the mind
and burns-0 the old buildings that must die.
the red snake sleazily gone by,
into the pub where drinks are unpaid-
not at least when coins are dispensed
without the presence of conscience.
the roads that wind together to form
a blockade against leisure time,
the broken phrases teachers use
when the complete would do much less.
the turban bandits that came from
healers,the chief vanguards of slavery,
history's many white bones and ash-
in some river they pass under us,
the dying nights when days are lived
too full,the dropped eyes that watches
the shadow instead of the man-
the water whose reflection is us.
the branch of a tree in the city
will replace that little thing again-
we learn to look at big pictures;for they lie better.
Literature is herself a clown.
Without this coming first,
no great art is made
except glooms of queer authors
peddling like traders of a trade.
The second needed
is the dying of the tedious
the writer must drown in happiness
and be filled in joy.
What covers will stay
and what empties will become
an empty road stand,
no beauty or use per say.
And last,the writer needs to master
the ideas of the whirling clock,
the deep jokes in ordinary lines,
and the skills of hung
heads,swinging apart their blood;
executed for what is done,
the writer executes the book
and the book,the image stays.
Muddy photographs at old house
black birds hanging out bare and brave,
sleeves of torn corpses and hanging bones
by the brown door,
but old man where are you?
Are you one of those?
Some one phoned me to come here
and that some one had a warm,alive voice.
Was that a man under claws,forced?
I cut the handles,
they fall into my hands
and termites were biting
the dust. Look,
what kind of
statue is that? On the stairway
and half awe commanding,
that statue of a lady with fresh flowers.
to see such statues here
and smelling of
lavender and green tea leaves,
like lotus in a pool of mud.
But old man. Where are you?
Are you side by side
with the sun,as evaporated air?
I don't know. If i knew i would not come.
the manuscripts are in the head,my dear.
each time we fought,i scribble more.
one day it became arranged
when i was away from you,
and the next day i will publish
my hurt all over you-
in the form of distaste.
you ask why i am always quiet:
i can't let the original fall
into seasons to become snow,
fallen leaves,crisp buds,
unusual flowers i didn't want.
i must plan them,so when it's done-
the mistake is long buried inside
with only cutting edges for an uneasy
hold for you.
you will never find that
manuscript,for i run from you
to hide myself from myself.
i want to translate
english within english
without the widows left
by explorers who
died in their exploration.
to go through deserts that withstood
to find an oasis that matters.
to open a new river that contains
one as far as nile river,
full of crocodiles that travel-
so much that anyone
who dared to be swept
in the stream
will find gold beneath the river
and love in themselves,
as though they just went through
what they were meant for,
despite never knowing what is it.
when i see young surgeons
with careless hands dissecting
poems in schools
ruthless for marks,
i smirked and declined from
warning them,one day
they will dissect their lives in poems.
not all of them will write,some will
pen lyrics and think greatly about it,
O that emotion that is universally Sad.
i know,their teachers too
have a habit around poems;
the class depended on them
for limitations and murmur.
with time,i knew they were same.
same in sanity and madness,
after the same teachings,
the blind philosophy,
the best glamourous road
of no end,
to be lost is possibility.
the tempted man will follow the snake
into the weeds,
the realised will sit and mend;
with some faith the broken becomes beauty.