Sweet Darling,
The rage of desire gone.
Autumn and winter end.
A faint spring murmurs by,
the sun, the ceaseless rain
will be back in the July days.
In a moment of rest like this,
at the moment of indolent turn,
on the spur of a marred parting,
may we not spurn each other,
rather, rise in love.
It is
in the everyday making of things-
of routine-
at the set hour,
we have each other, now
you with your hubris brush,
I
guard the Bosporus
Strait to my wound,
indifferent palette, hovering
in the air, you paint
my wounds,
chest, prolonged forehead,
I frown,
ask myself,
when did this vapid dullness,
a dull shade of blue become
the colour of love?
Jumping through the hoops of an emerald jungle,
a fawn; old lassos of shiftiness of being: tilting, swinging – from the branches –
the clicks of its follies, hitting against the pebbles of sorrows,
clacking like hoofs.
To each his own.
I’d rather be a shepherd dog:
restless but stubborn like hell.
Guttling the innards of the mournful demons who came
cloaked in a hoof dust dusk, shrieking, I could tell –
Fuckers! They were born of my own.
The winter saved me.
Those who live on this side
of regret — the humid side — know:
The rain is no relief,
just a utility to grow
the year’s grain. Therefore,
mud and the hurl of unclean water,
food from yesterday’s pooja, party
strewn on the road
in unlit rain, its horrible
stench to be taken lightly.
The winter saved me.
Those who hover on this side
of the rim of guilt —
the burning side — know.
Summer is no relief either:
a long wait for utility rain.
The skin of weary, thin patience
veers against the cloudless sky;
at the prickly-heat farm
at noon, canopying acres
of dry, cracked land, no farmer’s
hand fan soothes.
But autumn belies it all:
oh, autumn is a joke —
an apology of a season,
an imposter in a sunny dress.
Comes and leaves like gods:
thin, omnipresent; hence, worthless.
The hope of a coward.
No one to cling to when hope
turns dew. Or chaff.
Silent foot-moulds
lie awake on the deserted field,
ushering the threshing men home.
But no one comes.
The winter saved me.
In the spring that I had known,
the green leaves in the mossy garden
had turned again green.
The colour of the ill that splayed
spleen-bile blue; the tremble,
the sweat; the sorrow scratching
the throat; the cough, the dark, black
weight of the sullen door —
all neatly stacked
in convenient almirah folds:
the useless, motionless past.
The winter saved me, else
I would be the flame of the pyre,
a forlorn star watching
the world grieve between her
stitching chores and the pelting
of dry water drops on the tin roof.
The pale blue birds bring home
food from miles afar.
And I carried the rice cart
from home to the success city,
when the winter killed me.
The winter killed me.
The winter saved me from being sadder.
