Paperboat of Dreams

Copyright image Vibina Narayan

The pen is being wielded by

her misshapen fingers.

A child’s hand- like a supposed 

joke, that is pumped by the veins of 

A century old heart.

Wisdom grays, that heard a million

Stories, but never knew her own.

In the turbulence of whispers though,

She now sought her belonging.

A feeble, but a strong call,

Like the distant seething of a hurricane,

Opens the gateway, to what

Will always be.

They have had to fell fortresses,

Built of the cement of inherited love.

Over nights and over years,

Over the seven seas of unslept nights.

Her dismantled breath and an autonomous neck, still reaching out,

beyond mediocrity and not being understood-

The radio humming through the ticking pulse of the night.

Allowing the plastic biro and the ink of tomorrow to stain

The callus on a well rounded, cuticle bitten

Finger- to swear and for pleasure.

Setting sail on some once-upon-a-times and

Paperboat of dreams.

For what is poetry to a poet, but

A vacant essay, with 

No beginnings and no ends, but

A scattered middle, shaped wholesome with,

Words strewn like confetti and 

Cherished like a memory.

Hymn for the soul of a night

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Through the looking glass

I see,

Deep wells of resolute.

Never ending chasm of

Another universe.

Blinking big bangs and

Enigma burnt comet tails.

 

Hearing the notes from

Yesteryears, the gentle waft

Of a piano lay in

The cosmic river of

An incense I burnt.

Deep into another’s heart.

A midsummer night’s shadow

Hugging a forgotten corner.

Stranger on my bed of thoughts.

 

The well of hope and happiness

Seems bottomless

Until a boulder is hit upon

A leap of faith.

And still we must.

Jump to know what

Being alive is. Like

 

a requiem for the one

In the looking glass.

An incantation for the one

In your star crossed path.

A hymn for the one

Who felt a never tomorrow.

Hues of departure

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Yellow fields of brightening joy

Singing out to the lackadaisical day

Painted by wishful thinking.

Penetrated by languorous breathing. 

In pure poetry you assimilate

Into you the violet needs of

Glorious fireweeds .

 

Tired eyes bearing dreams

As much as you repress the 

Sunshine somewhere within 

The thick vapours of strange lands.

Allow me to cast, that which cannot 

 

Be seen or shown.

Rejoice in this day as 

The needles of light from heaven

Percolates into the collective conscience of

All that perished and shall,

But lived the running colours of every 

Landscape they imagined-

Length, breadth and

wiser upon departure.

salt of the earth

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A storm brewed in her heart

The one she arose to, was just the start.

The cold gnawed into her breastbone where

A lair of desires convulsed 

with the sorrow of a lost dream.

Suspended still in animation. 

 

Your wet mouth she felt deep within.

Teeth seeking her spine up the navel of birth. The primordial canal of her beginning.

Where it is? 

She couldn’t find 

her insanity. When it is now,  she

wanted to push you 

and your blighty madness in her matrix that was becoming. 

 

Words hanging there reachable, her arms paralysed.

Unable to pick them, as you lay absorbed, in between her, 

raving in the layers of your twilight. 

Within, beneath, above and through.

Feral tongue twisting in her softness and black.

Usurping the valley of sweetness and

fresh salt, 

hidden in the forest you always thought you had sought. 

 

A minute of you, is a lifetime of sin, 

she thought.

The thunder agreed with the gale and the branches swayed in unison and might,

All day long…

A lonely sparrow cooed meanwhile, all night long…

ANODYNE

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I let gratitude crumble into

My hard bed today.

Just my breathe is enough, thank you!

The heat outside has churned the

molecules of time I have lived yet

Into a pile of obscurity.

A pale column of steam, I am.

The birds outside are chattering housework and tomorrow,

The sun burns a hole in my escape plan

And dreams. Ones forever without an origin,

destination or route.

Wayward and wanton like a rogue elephant.

Just when we thought our legs and words

Have found their respite,

Here’s arriving a thousand restless tiny clouds,

And to all the climes living in our house upstairs,

that can claim nothing anymore, but a few well spent seconds, while here at home.

 

H is for Hamlet

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This gray day has bought with it

Some wizened thoughts

Of a past not long back

When the feet knew of stinging bites

And the heart found love in

Nothing old or known and

Thorns and stones

(and stupid idealism).

 

The hunger has died, but the burn remains.

The urge to purge the stillborn memories

Of many of our dreams we built callously,

(brick by brick)

Whetted by the stone of curiosity,

Licked by the blade of loneliness,

they have planted beautiful blooms

for the Gods in their slave’s garden.

To be enjoyed while taking a pinch of salt

With a drink to our sealed fate.

 

Grief comes to those who have the time to cry.

The rest of us keep on running until

we run dry.

And sometimes we remember to breathe,

As there is nothing any longer to feel.

While the gush of air in dissolves the body

Into the universe of our head rush,

And the clouds above roll out the drums and the show,

but no rains or tears from within,

I often question the distant rainbow,

I remember seeing while I walked a prayer for you, only to get

An endless reflection of vacuous colours,

in the mirrored room of illusions I built for myself. All over again.

Celandines by Egal Bohen

 

This week I am going to publish a poem from a rare gem of a find that I made earlier this year- the late Egal Bohen’s poetry book ‘The Navigator’.

Egal sadly passed away the morning after his book was finalised and published on Amazon, by his amazing daughter, Helen. This book is a must buy and should be up there in your shelf, for later reading, again and again. These are pearl words of wisdom that has come from a man who has lived, what I would consider from his words, a rich life.

I only know Egal through his words only and often, there are times when I have felt their tangible guidance like a spirit, especially when life brings about its dismay.

I am savouring this book, bit by bit, and I carry this in my work bag, making sure too read it only when I am in the mood for poetry, because even in the slightest of ways I do not want to disrespect Egal’s words, by not giving it my cent percent attention.

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Celandines is just one poem from his book. I can ensure you it’s filled page by page with the kind of words that should never be overlooked or unheard.

The Navigator is available on Amazon, for those who are interested. Pic as always by yours truly.

 

Woodland floor

Morning sun

Hearts of green

With yellow hung

Some have seven

Some have nine

Petals

In the light to shine

First messengers

Of spring

A sign

Cheerful

Cheeky

Celandines.

Apple Blossoms

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Shine on bright little ones

In the garden of 

The month of May.

You sweet little lillies

Of apples- crisp and green

That will ooze tangy sugar 

to coat my tongue 

a dream,

with or without cinnamon

in pies bearing the colour 

of autumn and the

cheer of being together 

again.

Until then, my visit beckons

the endless charm of

your white blossoms.

Smiling at me from sunshine,

preening on my  hazy thoughts

this fleeting moment

as short as my time here.

Your bowls that will shrink to 

form the fruits of my joy

In the garden of

The month of May.

Here

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Sunshine streams through the heavy clouds above

Like a call of conscience from heaven.

Life outside moves with a horizontal vector

While I’m sat here, static and in inertia of limbo.

The lilacs I always looked up to for respite

Have grown pale into the spite of existence grey.

Time moves inch by inch, every swipe of the needle

But a smudge on our longevity and dent in our breath.

I have not spent much here, yet I feel like

I have been home forever, 

The shadow of a stranger in the glass,

Some long lost friend.

I fix my gaze upon nothing yet I’m lost

Even the field of dandelions held like 

Beads of crystal in the softness of dusk tried to call me out.

Maybe that is what it is. To be here and now.

When you are really no where any how.

Forget me never

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Forget me never

Forget me not.

I am the music in your heart.

I am the soul of your art.

Forget me never

Forget me not.

I am the faint whisper in the sweetest of your dream.

I am the wisp o’ air caressing your face, in the deepest of your sleep.

Forget me never

Forget me not.

I am the remnant of your love for tomorrow.

I am the remnant of all your bygone joys and sorrow.