“Listen to the Wind”
The wind arrives, with secrets stitched in its breath,
It hums through the hollows of abandoned trees.
A hush of silk, it weaves the dusk with longing,
Its fingers comb the grass, gentle and unseen.
And each guest watches, trembling, through the curtains.
Rolling like sorrow across forgotten shores.
And against the windows of weary houses.
A lullaby layered with echoes of loss.
The wind remembers the steps that have passed,
And strews them as petals over the earth.
It carries the salt of tears uncried,
Spilling them gently into the quiet air.
Listen—the wind is not empty but aching,
A voice unmoored, searching for a place to rest.
In the rafters it bides, as restless as a soul,
Drifts away and takes some pieces of us.
The wind does not ask for witness or reply,
Yet, it teaches us how silence still can sing.
When night tucks itself into the folds of shadowed valleys,
The wind keeps vigil for all things who have no voice.
"Death is the mother of beauty;"
Death
as nothing is
not separate from
beauty~
death is
mother appearing
as beauty~
resulting in This
as it is~~~
She says, “But in contentment I still feel
The need of some imperishable bliss.”
Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
Alone, shall come fulfilment to our dreams
And our desires. Although she strews the leaves
Of sure obliteration on our paths,
The path sick sorrow took, the many paths
Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love
Whispered a little out of tenderness,
She makes the willow shiver in the sun
For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze
Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet.
She causes boys to pile new plums and pears
On disregarded plate. The maidens taste
And stray impassioned in the littering leaves.
~~Wallace Stevens, Sunday Morning
And she gave one more toy to her cry-child.
Yet, not a single look, it wailed on still,
Grew restless, hard to soothe and deeply riled,
But as mothers do, she knew what was ill.
She was Maya---the formless that we find,
Who strews along our paths a pile of toys
In hope that human souls, by grace inclined,
Would winnow fleeting pleasures from true joys.
Her deep illusion-clad love we can see
As light from darkness is at last untwined,
From ignorance, foam from the waves of sea,
And from Maya, mother is seen so kind.
And lo, when tallest of ceilings we tame,
We learn: ceilings and roofs are all the same.
__________________________________
Sonnet | 07.01.2012, recast July 2023|
Note: Maya is traditionally seen as an elusive thing that misleads. This piece sees her as mother that in maternal care spreads a lot of toys in our path so that we know to discriminate the good from bad.
Once a Christmas
The sun was blood red looked like a big wound
on the flank of an elephant shot by poachers.
Dripped blood on white, wholly cloud which slowly
turns red as the bandage of a fatally shot soldier
who slowly dies of his wounds?
His eyes turned into a mirror of the cold sky.
In the air is torn into puffs of powder an ambulance
comes to an abrupt halt, a man on the dirty floor
surrounded by presents for his family, his eyes
reflects the absurdity of a Yule decorated supermarket.
His wife will get a voucher.
As I drive home, a bag of night opens and strews its
soothing darkness over the land, but nearby
an anguished elephant has its tusks sawn off by a dentist.
Cold weather front
A few good days fooled us the cold weather returned we thought it was
early spring. I worried if my almond tree had its buds been damaged
and will not bloom and strews petals on the lane,
the illusion of frost, the princes in the tower saw in the fairy tale.
The fire in the grate is exuding warmth the dog no one owns snoozes in a chair,
no, the heart to throw it out
I’m not a tree hugger, but give trees a friendly slap
a sucker for the down and out bought a chicken for a Roma women
begging outside, the guard said, “you must not feed
them” like they should be vermin.
I love my almond tree reminded me of my mother when she was old,
so sweet her face in her frailty.
My wife, my huntress, rides the Holy Wind,
But still, daisies adorn her thick brown hair!
Her muslin robes blow out, her hair's unpinned,
Let dark thoughts try to chase her, if they dare!
For she outrides them all, strews flowers like hopes
And, with her hunting-dogs, argent, and gold,
She frees all prisoners, breaks all hangmen's ropes
A sure shot from her bow, and - young and old,
The wretched find their freedom come at last!
The hopeless rise and throw off fear's dull chains,
The blinded see the Now, Future, and Past
The horses lead their riders without reins!
Now, through the Night, she bolts like lightning's fire!
A fiery seraphim, who'll never tire!
I yearn for shades of Autumn and all that it could bring
the chromis strews of redding bricks the chilly burrr
Blushing apples high as kites tied to apron strings
and acorns full of french berets and nutmeg tinted plur
falling down like parachutes with no inter ;
I do foretell the signs of summer's end and so salute
the fury tilts of sapling greens in soakly forest wood;
Those elongated serenades of change with no refute
who can question them beneath God's plentish hood
except his "FIVE" bounteous leaves of cherry wood;
Swiveling down here and there aiming far with dip
the rusky calls of brownie birds as they lose their fur
The cheep- cheep- cheep of a baby's nest, a quip
that zings across the equinox of fall and oft conjures
the memory of an Autumn's tale and sweet procure ;
I yearn for gatherings of pumpkin pies and feast
the shaky janks of corn roast romps
the evening hearth that says "you're truly blessed"
Yes I love the Autumn's bold audacious stomp,
that sells to me its beauty and its comp...
August 24, 2018
Just tell me,
How can I feel
Your inebriating scent;
Strews round the ambiance,
Communicates feelings of touch;
Arouses senses,
Oft I wish to feel;
But sadly you conceal,
In heart shaped safe;
Oh dear! you don't seem you,
Without the scent of you;
Even rose, Jasmine and apple,
Reveal by scent what they are,
Excellence they have;
Your senses ravished,
Virtues lies in your scent;
© Sadashivan Nair
I, my me,
The identity;
Strews odour,
As floret rose;
Folks judge
By the virtues,
Of my me;
© Sadashivan Nair
Spirit of mom,
Follows me;
Strews her odour
Revealing presence;
The supple spirit,
Tickles me,
Gives touch of her feel;
She feels me,
Solaces me day and night,
Embraces my heart and soul;
Chats with me,
Through my mind;
Blesses me for my,
Wish and will;
She always lived for me,
Still she lives,
In my heart and soul;
© Sadashivan Nair
Ambiance flourish,
Strews cool odour of spring;
Feelings swing in inebriation;
Dreams too flow,
In the drift of bliss;
All seem awesome,
Feel like life in paradise;
Narcissism blinds our eyes,
See nothing except green;
Veils our mind,
Lurks our thoughts;
Forget there is always autumn,
In the next stage of life;
Veins go weak and dry,
Wrinkles form in face,
Body weakens, heart shrinks;
Essence of love shifts,
From tender age to old age;
Lived own life,
Now it's turn of tender youngs,
Give space so they can flourish;
Watch them rise,
And live for them rest of life;
© Sadashivan Nair
What comes after
Nonstop tales
Ugly truth for that matter
Neverending stories that never get stale
It sucks
Unbearable to my ears
Perhaps it is luck
That I am not, to you anymore dear
Here comes regret
Being played in your game
Not knowing your shocking traits
Long before I let my heart beat your name
I have but just one wish
You were that wonderful person I thought I knew
Not the one they said rubbish
Like the sand it strews
Emi, June 9, 2015
Behold it's in my heart
Knocks the drums then
With own feathers'
Nightingales moaning.
And over the salty' waves
Gulls fly.
I pay what remain
from the days of joy
Near the heart shades.
Maybe in the midst of sorrow
The poem sings to life.
Maybe amid the clouds return
Winged! accompanied with
Songs,meanings and peace.
I thought the sun
dissolves as a bright disk,
carefully upon the tinsel_days
Then along the distance
Strews the dew on the grass
which in my soul ---
I am shudder now.
Oil Change
I’m not a poet never was, but I like to tell stories
Most of the stories are for my inner ear,
But for some reason my collections are called poetry.
I’m a practical chap, just changed oil in my car and
Filled up the coolant, which is pink coloured.
Later I will drive to the local garage and see if the tyres
Have the right amount of air; and then clean the car.
When I write about carob trees and my special tree
The almond, which in my mind, strews flowers on my
Fevered often walked track, I do so in tenor like oiling
The hinge of a door or hammer a long nail into a wall,
Nothing can be less poetic. In Kaleidoscope once I saw
My future lover’s face, can that be called poetry?
Tuesday afternoon in November.
Well this is, the ending of another day I’m looking out
of the window the road is clean and tidy after rain.
The sun is coming out of hiding and strews golden dust
on the window ledge, it is a sort of thank you since I’m
taking care of a sunray I found huddled behind the gas
bottle in the back yard. It was too cold for it to get back
so I put it under my bed – I need only one blanket now-
so there are times being kind can be helpful.
The sunray, not talkative, hides behind the china I bought
for my daughter’s wedding only I never had a child; it
was a dream I mistook for the real thing; but never mind
the cleaning lady likes to drink tea and pretend she is
a grand dame. It is darker outside than inside so I lit the fire
drink a cup of coffee, at this end of a beautiful day.
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