some words were spoken
some were not
the winter of words
entered the map of speech
body and love
entered too
earth, stars, mountains
i
discovered myself
inside the memoir
of a yellow-green
orangutan
sometimes
even the empty teacup
left on the table
becomes my teacher
and begins
to speak
then i
bow down
at the feet
of the tender diction
of a young
bottle-gourd vine
in the light
that has touched
the sea
i saw
jacaranda blossoms
in the schoolyard
there, on the crown
of the mahogany tree,
the clouds of sunset
A map peppered
With modern skyscrapers
And tranquil hamlets
Have I traversed today -
A map colored
In vibrant yellow tones
Of laughs and smiles galore
Have I traversed today.
And yet -
A map littered
With ruins of shattered
Buildings, cities, lives
Do I witness today -
A map tainted
With bloody, scarlet hues
Of warfare and struggle
Do I witness today.
And yet -
The same earth holds
Cities, towns, villages -
The same joy pervades
Young, old, and all in between.
The same soil sees
Cities, countries collapse -
The same heart beats
Within, as blood pours.
The map does hold
Several stories untold
Of people so diverse
Yet sharing the same soul.
When I walk,
beneath my feet,
the road begins to sound.
I listen
to the music of the road.
When I walk,
beneath my feet,
the road begins to dance.
I move my feet
to the rhythm of its dance.
When I walk,
beneath my feet,
a map of the road takes shape
.
I scatter myself
across the map of the road.
I want to play
with the road.
Hungry map
It gobbles up
my body.
Within the crowded dark,
She dreams of a golden bloom.
Weaves a swift, geometric loop,
Then traces right, a graceful swoop,
To banish gloom. from the room.
And share a silent spark.
THE MAP TO YOU
“To my greatest discovery and my heart’s true home”
Like a twinkling star up in the sky
Finding you was like a treasure hunt through the dark
It was rough; it was hard, but fulfilling
Knowing I was born to find you, because you’re the prize;
The only gold I’ll ever need to hold
Black Mud, Grey Ash
The water struck
and wiped a village
from the earth
A dreamland of golden wheat
gone in a single thunder
Trees stand empty
forgetting the lovers
under their shade
Silence waltzes
through the lanes
with destruction’s tune
Bangles
schoolbags
a lone flute
now ash
on the wind
And photos
hold our lives
breathing
in black mud
My heart: poetry of a faded road map.
Abstract fragments,
an out of sync word,
a line full of teardrops,
you can’t read the route.
Shifting between fonts,
abstract aesthetics,
incoherent process,
impossible signage.
Lonely cracked bridges,
resolutions unknown,
barely missing collapse,
a fickle heartbeat plays on.
On the hunt for a dirt road,
fertile soil to put a stamp on,
spirit tickled with wanderlust,
the muse revives a flatline.
A faded road map: my heart’s poetry.
One day the children
will forget the names we gave to borders
they will run barefoot
until the earth forget its edges
and in their pockets--
chalks, seeds, a small republic of insects
they will redraw the walls
as doors left ajar
they will press their ears
against the silence of guns
and hear only rust
they will bury our iron
deep enough for roots to argue with it
watch them--
how they speak fluently with stray dogs
with wind, with unfinished afternoons
how they refuse inheritance
of fear
how they say: this sky is indivisible
and mean it
one day
they will return our cities to rivers
our languages to touch
and everything we built to divide
they will make briefly useful
like a toy
left in the rain
My body is a map waiting to be discovered
I found the old map
folded neatly there
in the desk drawer,
unfolding I see
our last journey, planned
but never taken.
Only you can draw the map
Without contours the uncharted
Ocean of surprise you need to
Buoy your flagging dream
Let it O! Let it arise
Serene on the crest
Of morning: the
Subsiding
Fury of
Your
Self.
Christopher M. Swan 2008
Particles of sweat, creeping into the
panoramic canvas...
Your body is like a flower vase, crowded
with freshly bloomed flowers of the
arbour of love,
I asked you wherefrom you have brought them...
Silent you were.
Thereupon your fingers were fidgety,
sauntering through my bare back,
A tingling sensation, a mild line of
blood, or I might have been wrong,
for your pale neck was intact when
a uniform oval sign of love was dug there,
by my trembling teeth, undisturbed, unperturbed
by the external disturbances.
Just like Ulysses was searching for his
destination, my hands, in pursuit of your
pleasure hotspot,
around and around would roam aimlessly.
Let us live through the moments, for the
freshly bloomed flowers would be wrinkled again
until they are rejuvenated
by my spurt of love
Sarban Bhattacharya
I have found a map for you my pal Mary Lee said
I was excited, because she has great ideas for me
but can’t we go together? I asked her.
Not this time, maybe the next one.
Three naysayers said there must be something wrong
Why wouldn’t she want to go? It might be a trap.
I knew my friend would not steer me on a wild calf chase.
I ignored their negativity; as I always do.
Mary Lee stayed home with her livestock
and I set off, with a trusty sidekick, Merriweather.
Merriweather adores everything about me.
She builds me up and chases unkind people away.
Two of the naysayers sent me mean texts.
Warning me that this might be a trap.
I did not find the fountain of youth this time
But Merriweather and I got closer.
And I remembered why I cut naysayers lose.
I blocked both of their names and numbers.
Knowing my life would get easier.
And it did.
The colony rehearses its certainty—
feathers ticking like metronomes,
breath rising and vanishing on cue.
Ice remembers every footstep
and forgives none,
yet here life proceeds by agreement,
a choreography older than language,
each body a comma
in a sentence that ends in survival.
One bird pauses.
Not dramatically—
no prophecy, no cry.
He turns inland,
toward a blankness the wind has not edited.
The snow does not argue.
The horizon does not blink.
Instinct loosens its grip
like a glove dropped without noticing.
We watch because watching is all we have.
There is no word in our mouths
that fits this angle of departure.
Nature, usually so fluent,
stammers.
The camera keeps its distance,
as if reverence were a form of ignorance,
as if explanation would be a lie.
He becomes smaller, then theoretical.
Not broken, not heroic—
simply unsponsored by reason.
Some creatures follow maps.
Some discover that the map does not include them.
The ice closes its book.
The wind keeps walking.
I consulted with my star map to find
that I had lost more than my mind.
I've gone far astray since my humble birth,
and now I'm on the planet earth.
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