I pick up a piece of Glacial quartz. Cold stone in my fist Glinting in the morning Sun is the tunnel To slide into the domed Halls of childhood This winter, Where for the first time I am learning again What directions are.

Face the sun, say east. This took place on a hill Which overlooked a filled Cemetery, which returned British sepoys to dust Under hulking banyans.

The cold neck faces west. Here I have exiled myself Trying to forget the fact That world, like time, Is circular, and that there Will always be a west Beyond this west.

I lift my arms as She taught me to. A bearded scarecrow’s Arms pointing to north And south, as they Throw crumbs to The crows.

Other lessons to be Learnt? How does water Sprinkled on the wall Vanish? Why do images Disappear in sleep? Why does salt dissolve, Only to reappear later, Sometime years later, As crystals, as rain, As memory?

These I have managed To learn without being Taught: sleep, grasp, Let go, make love, Empty, fill up, Echo, fall silent, Walk, walk away Into the deep wood.

(For Ai)

As lute notes flutter, the pen Hovers over these pages uncertain Of what should be said now Or what should have been said Then. Moon gains every night, And ravishes the cautious black Snowfall with its white fingers.

The distance between my voice And your body is muffled with Silence. Ink seeps, the nib enters Flesh of the page. How does It matter if I drink and laugh Or weep and drink, in this language I don’t understand but use to write?

This night is a grand oak Of silence with it’s spry Branches veining this still Beating heart, futile heart.

A violin sings in my ear
Softening the harsh choral German
As it proclaims certainties of
Forgiveness of sins and the impossible
Salvation of man because
Someone else had lived and died
Suffering for us, we who gave
Him ample pain.
And because
Of beauty of this musik
For long moments doubt is
Kept in abeyance, fingers keep
Time with notes, moving over
This aural rosary. “Lord! Lord!
Don’t forsake us”, must have
Been sometimes answered with
Musik instead of the usual blank
Echo of silence.
But mostly
We draw out our misery into
Melissimas. Sun is burning
Frost off spread hay, in which
A flock of robins are foraging
For worms. In winter pickings
Will be slim. I walk under hundred
Year old oaks. The great Book
Is this, the flesh that is Word,
And which lives and sings.
My hands scatter breadcrumbs
And Bach into the east wind.





My Poems