After a night full of restless wandering The morning comes without any hope.

I fall down into some endless tunnel And this moment moves into the next

Without asking why, when or which. Words lay around like mangy dogs lolling

In summer heat, unable to assuage this Endless silence of shadows of my world.

The only consolation are these few old songs I had carried here from afar on

Crackling unwound reels, which I play again And again endlessly through out this day.

“You will be haunted by some shadows of the past falling across the page of present”, read a fortune cookie last night, spilling the future for you after a meal of Kung-Pao chicken. Fuck fortune cookies. A man makes his own fortune. Or does he? Nothing however seems to be lost in you however does it, especially the bitterness that you have sieved through your brain again and again, triple distilled?

It has begun to rain and you need to stop drinking and get out of this god-forsaken bar. Solitude of your mind has become a precious solitaire that is rarely shattered, even as you sleep walk your way through dim blues joints inside this brown pelt of yours, many nights of the week. That familiar penetrating wail of a guitar, the band is covering The Doors, goddamn how can you break on to the other side, when you seem to find a new side every time you wake up, from whichever floor you find yourself lying on.

I hide myself within my flower That fading from your Vase, You, unsuspecting, feel for me – Almost a loneliness. ~Emily Dickinson (903)

“Boil it down, boil it down” urges a poet, the sinew of your chest, the fat of your heart, but the great rage and great pain you find growing inside, so naturally, in your vase don’t somehow permit that. What does one feel then? Almost a loneliness? Or as Dickinson spake, a formal feeling?

After great pain, a formal feeling comes – The nerves sit ceremonious like tombs.

How did a reclusive genius write such words, which could have been the wail of a blues song? What is this music but flowers hurled at the nerves, those tombs from which a hand occasionally reaches for the sky, passing feet, laughing children, sunshine, first flowers of spring, and feeds the lipless grinning mouth inside, words that perhaps were just blowing in the wind all along?

This music spills out of the hands out the waitress over there in the steely light, bent over folding (Aw child! how she folds) pieces of steel, on which food reaches your mouth, between pieces of square paper, on which you scribble these words. Roadhouse Blues, streaks of red in her black hair, streaks of vanished tears down her face. Why are you reading your fucking wretchedness into the scenery, Brother? The howl of stark raving best minds of a generation is too distant in time now.

To whom the Mornings stand for Nights, What must the Midnights be! ~Emily Dickinson (1055)

Ah midnight, ah how sweetly passes midnight, casting long shadows across your face. Hello, I love you. Won’t you tell me your name? Or is this The End? Yes yes yes…

[A]

Poetry happens when the limited self trips over a stray live wire of the unbounded. Poems are the sparks.

You gain this, you lose that. Here koels don’t sing away the long summer afternoons, but a cardinal streaks the morning air like a bloodied thumb.

Stripped of bark by rain, wind and insects, fallen trees gleam white – the forest’s bones.

What is a forest but a poem lying on its back, and gazing at the sky?

“The agent that provokes both the erotic art and the poetic act is imagination. Imagination turns sex into ceremony and rite, language into rhythm and metaphor. The poetic image is an embrace of opposite realities, and rhyme a copulation of sounds; poetry eroticizes language and the world because its operation is erotic to begin with.” ~ Octavio Paz, from his brilliant collection of essays, ‘The Double Flame – Love and Eroticism’.

“The very word metaphor, with its roots in Greek words for bearing across, describes a sort of migration, the migration of ideas into images” ~ Salman Rushdie from his book of non fictions ‘Imaginary Homelands’.

[B]

The two sections of Bible’s Old Testament worth reading closely are Ecclesiastes and Song of Songs in that order. It is appropriate to first begin with a meditation on vanity – “all is vanity” says the poet of Ecclesiastes - and only then go on to the Song that sings of Eros wanting to approach God or Eden, and perhaps succeeds. These two impulses are also what Nikos Kazantzakis writes about in the Prologue of his novel (deemed heretical by the fucked up ‘Church’) ‘The Last Temptation of Christ’, where he says

“My principal anguish and the source of all my joys and sorrows from my youth onward has been the incessant, merciless battle between the spirit and the flesh. Within me are the dark immemorial forces of the Evil One, human and pre-human; within me too are the luminous forces, human and pre-human, of God – and my soul is the arena where these two armies have clashed and met”

Of the New Testament (in the committee sanctioned version of course), it is useful to get a copy of the “red” version. All of ‘thus spake Jesus, the great carpenter man’, is marked out in red, to be read by both the ‘believers’ and the ‘heathen’ (like me), in such a version. There is much a poet can learn about rhythm, pacing, imagery etc from these treasures hidden in the Bible – one of the two books that Rilke always carried with him.

[C]

The folks at NYT Book Review must have been peeking in through the window behind my bed at the book pile next to my pillow, for this week’s review features two books on subjects I am currently reading about, and have been thinking about in the recent past: Iran and India.

The book reviewed on the cover page is a memoir of Iran – ‘In the Rose Garden of the Martyrs’ by Christopher de Bellaigue, and is reviewed by that highly nomadic creature who is called Pico Iyer (I have always wondered which Tam Bhram parents could have named their son Pico instead of the more regular Muragan, Ramaswami etc?). Apart from detailing the fascinating smoke, mirrors and daggers world of Iran I had been reading about elsewhere –few examples: rich young women in suburban Tehran giving blowjobs to their boyfriends in order to preserve their ‘virginity’ till their marriage to their first cousins, or receiving effusive dinner invitations that one is meant to refuse – the review was illustrated by photographs of stunningly beautiful young Iranian women (here are is one photo). And thus taking me twice as long to fall a sleep last night! In this context it also occurred to me that extreme repression (as in Iran) or extreme freedom (without responsibility, as in say USA) always sets off centrifugal demons; morals police or ‘komiteh’ drive young people of Iran to desperate measures to breathe, while ‘free’ sex, ‘degenerate’ music etc engender the ‘family values’ hypocrites of USA.

The second review featured a book 'The Rise of the Indian Rope Trick' by Peter Lamont, which exposes the ‘Great Indian Rope Trick’ to be a hoax, and the creation of an inventive and mendacious young reporter for Chicago Turbine circa 1890. Thankfully I have never been asked by anyone here if I have ever witnessed this trick. Likewise no one has ever asked me if I rode an elephant to school, although I have been often asked if I spoke ‘hindu’ or what I thought (this with an ironic grin or smile at such barbarism) of the ‘arranged’ marriage (here I must report that I have become a full time apologist for arranged marriages, even though I may not partake of it myself).