(What is in a name?

- a lot, almost everything

except time.)

Inter alia

I care to admit

I like your hair

amorphous beehive

imploding

into a thousand

polaroid lilies

in the sun.

Long moments

turn themselves up

before the winds

living in the trees

cut loose winter

and a mischief

of metaphors.

What is your name?

2008

The solitary line

Euclid drew

with a dead twig

has one sad end

under my mute bed.

The other end

is under your feet

If I may say so

one side step away

(from the Euclidean line)

there is sun

and summer

of the origins.

And the tree

around the corner

has leaves of exactitude

and meanings

that are ripe ahead

of the season

falling

with mild bursts.

On the other side

is autumnal calm

in the citadel

under the siege

of bridesmaids.

Before the knot

tightens

around the rooster’s neck

there is time for

another round of applause.

­­­­­­­­­­­­­Drawing at this point

the only possible

line parallel to the first

the enemies sat down

for the feast.

( ______________ )

2007

Long past

mid day

the shore

is a slender

glistening arm

felt by

the white foamy

tongue

of perfect sea.

Mirror in hand

a dwarf moves

one foot at a time

among pilgrims

prophesying

the apocalypse.

There is no death

for the birds of winter.*

No cemeteries.

In the warm navel

of the sea

from a time before god

a wind

stitches perpetually

one moment

and the other

at precise ruptures.

From the lithe grove

of the afterglow

the dwarf

reappears and vanishes

with his crafts of

ancient voyages

crashing on the waves

in one sudden rush.

The procession of pilgrims, on reaching the sea, sings in unison, no epitaph is worth the dead, no buried ever remembers his name, or hers, the winds are blowing all the clouds away, over the lighthouse and the dusk, over the ships and the masts, the night of cicadas, the night of disquiet, is waiting like a pirate of pure lore, waiting for glory, at these hours waves upon waves, I call myself by my name.

2007

* I chanced to read this line among graffiti and bill boards at Fort Kochi, in December 2007, though the author of this line remains anonymous to me.

millipedes

from the backyard

of plants

and ponds

die

on the cot

of leaves

laid

inside my pocket,

scorched

by the noon sun

or

crushed

by my grip

on an oversized

trouser,

that always smelled

of mushrooms,

milk

and moist wood.

Post script:

perhaps it was

(or perhaps not)

the summer

when I first felt

the unnerving heaviness

of sentences

that report death.

2006

The fable of the blue whale’s army

is one of seasonal returns

to spent summers of light and play,

of match-box forts and backyard seas

whose waves reach the kitchen,

and sinking the shadows

of the sonorous utensils,

of my mother at work,

quietly, unlike themselves, slip

into my room,

into its dark corners

and abate,

forming an infant island

out of the bed I lie on, having

escaped my name

into a distant, echoless sleep.

Awake, amidst the disquiet

of the tropics, the wind

among the teak leaves,

ripe beans of coffee

palm fronds, green fans,

I narrate the fable

to cousins,

all impassioned fabulists,

unsuspecting yet fearful.

Sea horses, octopuses,

whales miles long,

now forgetful and venerable,

bathed in the sun

in these teakwood jungles

that was a long,

long while ago

a frightening ocean.

But fear not,

on the seas,

they sink ships, devour sailors

and burp loud earthquakes,

on sundays, there they come

octopuses with flags,

eight of them,

seahorses and spears,

whales with cannons,

to the market

when all the fish in the sea

are caught in the fishermen’s nets.

2006

made to a scale

of medieval anguish,

left behind after

the great conquest,

is circling now

over balconies,

over flowerpots

and lowered blinds,

gliding low

among the clotheslines,

settling now

and winding its way

down the door,

that old map

from yesterday

without a tense,

neatly folded and sealed

with fern dust,

lost and found

under the door

eager to take residence

among the papyri

of unspeakable mishaps

that we have inked,

despite ourselves.

2007

invented the airplane

on a hot summer

afternoon,

about ten to two.

Mid air, swaying

like a paper kite,

he felt warmer

than always,

and a nerve twitched

on his eyelid.

He felt, he saw

ceramics glistening

from a cafe` window

in Paris, far away

like enameled clouds.

Floating above trees

he imagined stars

to be luminous fish,

swimming

above the clouds,

then perhaps, fish

to be stars fallen

among the waves.

With an eye on Cartier’s

time beating on his wrist

Santos Dumont

descended, gently.

He spoke nothing.

He wanted a steaming

cup of coffee.

He had clocked

twenty three moments

floating,

closer to the sun

and the gods.

2006