april notes 2018

Ice melts into water Gossamer dandelions fly Children swim like ducklings Kayaks, canoes and engine boats make their own ripples Life starts anew ... Like youth and autumn leaves Truth be told, Summer too is marred by its fugacity ... Let life be lived ...

He is the destroyer of earth and heaven. He stands akimbo on the mountain peak. He looks down and sees the rivulets gather their streams together into mighty rivers. He is the dancer. He dances his cosmic jitterbug while the thunder plays its boogie-woogie blue ... A sustained din, A chuckle, A dishonest bard marred by confused melancholy, An entropy ... Alive in a deadly dream ... He felt an oscular touch coming down with photic celerity only to be frozen in no time; time is torn, space collapsed, and gravity devastating. Dream weaves its gossamer threads and floats deeper into other dreams, and beyond other horizons. Doors ajar. A reed and a blade of green grass from a far-away planet waft by ... He floats deeper and deeper into other dreams, and beyond. Trees blaze in flame. Shiva loves the wild and the poisonous; The Dhuturas, and the Akondos.

It's morning, still to converse with my first guest. Just read your email. Thank you for your note. My first guest is a child. He came with his mother. I asked,  : How are you today? He smiled, : I am good. He smiled again, : My parents are getting a divorce. Mother had pain in her face. Quickly we changed subject. Cough, wheeze and sneeze ... Your kindest note is humbling ... It's a quest through thorns and thickets; Garden of heaven at yonder. I am ready to entertain my next guest.

Do dreams have meaning? Do elephants fly? Jasmines and hibiscuses are in full bloom. Bougainvilleas scream their intense colors. Birds fly. Evening is lazy. Two souls forded an eternal stream. At the second morning, they were kissed. Heart fluttered, but is was the brain that was awash. A gold rush of dancing chemicals inundated their total being. Consciousness gave way to a blissful unconsciousness. Their lips were ensanguined autumn leaves - ripe to fall for the earth. Is the universe anthropocentric?

Imagine, one sweet morning you and I woke up dead. Amines, and cholines , and all those prancing fairies of our carbonaceous being stop their trickery. Hooked to machine. No pain. No elation. No nothing. Is not it something to be nothing? “All that remains is a fate whose outcome alone is fatal ”* And imagine, One sweet morning woke up not … * from Ephemeral Creation. Albert Camus)

A song is not a song until it is sung. Until it seeps into the deepest stratum of someone else’s song. Thus you sing the song of Earth and Moon. Thus you sing the song of rain and crimson hibiscus. Thus you sing the song of a gilded nugget, That is lost in the depth of a mighty river. I am the nugget. I was born in an exploding sun. I carry the story of eternal time. I tumble down the river. I tumble past the bare cliffs and dark canyons. I tumble down to the verdant meadow. I touch the heart of a tiny blue flower. I see a lonely gazelle, Staring … I carry the story of eternal time. I tell my story to the tiny blue flower in the meadow. A song is not a song until it is sung I sing my song to the gazelle and to the blue flower Who you are? Gazelle or flower ?!

“ there are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt in your philosopy.” (Shakespeare, Hamlet) 'and philosophy is dead' Thus spake Stephen Hawkins For math has taken over And heaven exists no more The arena is ever changing And the fabric boisterous This is the ethos Creation and destruction dance like a Siamese Twin Tangled ... ' to be or not to be' Wary I sit on a tree on water's edge A lonely kingfisher dives in For long-lost halcyon days Wary I ran into the brier Let me bake my own heaven and earth Let me be my own lord 'kun fayakun' I said Ah Why the earth is pretty And the sea salty

Moments sing past moments It's almost dark but not Twilight colors have hearkened the hues of ornate Luray He sits next to the window overlooking the river He sings of hiemal songs He sings of the river and of the ocean An eternal mollusk

Beyond the sun and moon Into the heaven Wings withered Under the Lote Tree Eyes looked yonder: ' Let God be the man and man be the God' HE said The words trembled past the shade of the tree And succumbed into eternal entropy

This week I got two books; one still hot from the press, a novel by my friend. My friend is critical care doctor. He dances with life and death. The other book is “Godsong” – a celebration of friendship between God and Man. Amit Majmadar is a doctor too. He dances with life and death too. He strives to kill the emperor of all maladies – cancer. My wife is a singer, she is training her voice, and planning the teaching details for the next semester. A sitar, a tabla-duo and a harmonium and printed article on quantum suicide. This is the morning. Eggs, avocado and few slices of bread. Marlowe's Dr. Faustus was on the floor. I picked it up and read to my wife: “ run, softly, softly, horses of the night ... ” This was the morning. My wife is doing her nails; terracotta color on toes. She called. I left my laptop in the study. Toes are blazing like sumptuous butea. I kissed. Rabindranath on youtube. It's April and still cold and snowy. I lament not … I shall not ask the sun

Air is crisp and blithe with light snow I reach the wooden bridge, Yonder is the tall sandstone gate of Bayside Cemetary The trail takes a trun. A roundabout ... Sleeping souls My tired calf slogs back Lighted apartments Life's vagary A gas station Coffee shop Church spires A two-mile run on Clarkson Trail With every step, I feel the earth still wet and soggy from melted snow. Trees stand tall with songs of spring. It's spring; it's not …

A hym from an ocean floor of a far away planet A chant of thousand verses of thousand minds She wanders from heaven to heaven The Goddess of all Goodness A lotus A yoga mat & Morning tea

He kissed that immortal kiss. Yet the chariots of night never stops, A perpetual day is but an infernal nightmare; Serpents reign … O’ dear friend of twenty-four years, Forewarn was there for me to heed How shall I blame for my misery, But you – what is your story? Have you too dined and danced with the kings and queens? Have you too kissed an immortal kiss? Have you too cried for the chariots of the night to go slow? "O lente , lente , currite noctis equi ! The stars move still time runs, the clock will strike," Let the clock strike its last upshot. It’s time for the vacuity of fullness to end.

Eventide in the winding woods. A bang and a screeching halt. A road kill. A lonely limping deer; Is it a man or a woman deer? Winter was harsh and food was scarce. Tonight he or she will be alone. He drove past the eventide into the night.

A week into spring. River again dance in high wind. Stubborn snow melts away inch by inch Dandelions and lilacs await on wings Ah! When the grass shall come back with bugs and butterflies in its bellies? Ah! When the gazelle shall roam and set the spring free into the explosive bloom? Ah! When the earth shall be rife giving off its geosmin nascence of freshness? A week into spring. I sit on the tattered grass. I pray.

No poem is better than a poet. A poet is a poem. When a poet writes a poem, he becomes his own doppelganger. A book of poems becomes a starry sky of thirty poets; The moon, the sun, and the birdsong. A book of poems is the purgatory, wherefrom rises the poet-extraordinaire. A fiery star, an explosion to smithereens, a golden nugget.