Beware of the Body
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This body covered with matted hair, this body that smells of old sweat, this body is an instrument of dance, this body that stood like a tree in the whites of winters and greens of monsoons, this body on which lines have been craved with chisels of words, kisses, lips, tongues this body that grows taut to beautiful music, poems, certain voices and skins this body that races on pavements, this body which knows deep pain, which wears a gaunt face and tired eyes, this body which loves rivers, old railway stations, sunsets, wild flowers growing on roadsides, moon hanging on the firmament and stars. this body that is the sea that keeps crashing on the drakness of the incoming night, this body was born as an mysterious smooth egg, now its shell is craked, just a glancing touch of a stranger sends it into a hysterical pain, this body is an yellowing newspaper with news that has gone stale, this body is now a figment of you limited imagination, this body once or twice almost stood at an altar of pure nakedness and said "I do I do". Now I do I do kill it every evening and every night. Die Die Die. It waits for a needle to pierce the views, a blade to slice, dice and chop the viens, it rolls in sleep, a ship sinking in unfinished promises, a cur scavenging in these grabage dumps of dead dreams. This body knows and this body will remember you, you and you, this body was a weapon that sliced through you, this body was a tatoo that you can't ever erase, this body is the eclipse of the sun to come, this body is the growling wind of death, the invisible jail in which you will lead your small life, buy your clothes, wear your lip gloss, go to your balls, your dreams, this body is the sky that is slowly seeping through this hole into the whole world, the smell of ash, the taste of sweet plums, and the sound of hail on tin roofs you would sleep underneath all your nights. Beware Beware Beware. This body is an explosive. Beware of the body! ------------------------------------------ 2002:05:30 19:30 Atlanta |
My Poems
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Paino
Flora Dancing
One day my mother and father was singing together in the forest, great storm blew up out of nowhere. But so passioned was their singing that they did not notice, nor did they stop as the rain began to fall. And when their voices rose for the final phase of the duet, a great bold lightning came out of the sky and struck my father so he ignited up as a torch. To the same moment as my father was struck dead, my mother was struck dumb. She never spoke another word.
- Flora telling aunt Morag how Ada became mute -
The voice you hear, is not my speaking voice. But my mind's voice. I have not spoken since I was six years old. No one knows why. Not even me. My father says it is a dark talent, and the day I have taken into my head stop breathing, will be my last. Today he married me to a man I have not yet met. Soon my daughter and I shall join him in his own country. My husband said my muteness does not bother him. He writes - God loves stoned creatures, so why not he? We are good he has God's patience. For silence affects everyone in the end. The strange thing is I don't think myself silent. That is because of my piano. I shall miss it on the journey.
- Ada's voice
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Talking to Mud Walls
You talk to the mud walls, entreating them with pleas. And tonight you will be awake awaiting your Love.
Tonight the hennaed sky will be calm till you meet him. He has promised to come, but your lips quiver, "Will he?"
You had travelled high and low looking for his magic, you have seen Mecca, you have seen Mathura searching east and west for him.
You skin has whitened to the color of bleached whale bone, your eyes have gone dry. But tonight he will come and color you with himself.
He will pour one color after another onto your burning skin with his cool hands, he will smile at your mock anger and wash you with his love.
Tonight the darkening sky will rain: only after he meets you in Paradise. He has promised to come but you still fret in anxiety, "When will he come?"
So you talk to the mud walls.
2002:05:18 13:15 Atlanta
Inspired by a qwaali written by Amir Khusrau, a Sufi poet and sung by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan.
My Poems
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