Stillness

If there's something I should be doing, it would be mediating. Unfortunately, I haven't been able to do this for reasons (or excuses) too numerous to list. Yet I recognize the benefits. Could writing about it be just as beneficial?

Stillness


There’s a certain stillness
that one finds in the eye of the tornado
When you find it, you first have to raise your arms to the side,
then let them drop
taturally

You close your eyes
so you can listen.

There are sounds you don’t hear but
feel in your open palms.

Then you listen to your self speak
without opening your mouth.

There may be a brush of a an object across your cheek, but you don’t mind.
Just because.

The stillness is more critical.
It’s just for a moment that you can savor this.

In just a moment,
The twister will turn its course and you must follow.
And make your choice to seek the courage
to either follow the eye or stand?

Spaghetti Love Dream

My mind is dazzled by
the twisted emotions I feel.
I want to loop and dip in the succulence.
I want to wallow in the spicy sauciness and
release myself from the rules.

There’s nothing I can do to control
the quiet entanglement on my plate, but
simply slurp all of it into me,
absorb the flavors and the delicious
desires. In my gleeful indulgence,
I let the last bit lash
against my chin
as a reminder of my guilty amusement.

Oh Jealousy

This was a writing prompt - write a poem that would be response to a song. One of my favorite songs is Natalie Merchant's Jealousy. I'm not trying to match the rhythm or anything, but just the emotional connection.

I’ve seen your photographs
inside the albums he
doesn’t know I’ve seen,
the ones he’s been meaning to change.
Even if he had,
a face like yours will always be
in his memory, cleaved deeply.

I smell your fragrance when he swigs
a glass of bourbon.
I hear your voice when he sings
a song from that island you saw together.
You are always here.

Do his nights with me match the ones
you created together?
Were there sparks in the air
as flames floated away from your bodies?

I know how he would’ve wrapped
his body around yours
because he tries with mine.
I feel the raw hunger,
a ravenous readiness
to devour
but it diminishes.
Yet his desire swells,
the desire to consume your body
as I am consumed by your ghost.

Sounds of Mumbai Morning

Not one simple sound performs the surya namaskar.

Awake are the birds with clear calls that spring into jigs,
and crows throwing husky shouts into the air like shotputs.
A melange of twitters turn into arias that
compete for a place in the open sky.

The brush of a straw broom as it grazes the ground,
sweeping the ever present dust and
pushes the fallen leaves aside to begin a clean new day

...OM

The sound that broke the universe
into its glorious self
breaks the morning as a neighbor prays.

The fruit seller strikes a bell and calls
a nasal ditty as he pushes his rickety cart,
laden with the weight of pineapples

A truck engine burps.
Cars honk their presence to the school buses.

The city brims with life
before the sun has fully stretched its arms over the sky.

Neologism Poem

The writing prompt was to create a word, and use it as subject of a poem. This was all I could come up with. However, my poem doesn't reveal its true meaning of the word, but its essence.


A meop came to me and asked if I could
take it under my wing.
It would only be temporary and oh, such a brief stay.
Why, it's hardly noticeable.
I welcomed it to shelter
under the shade of my soul.

It scurried quickly to bury its head first
next to me, and then nestled its heart
close to mine.
Before I could realize it,
the meop’s heart was fusing into mine.
My breathe was halting
just as its breathe was.

Suddenly I longed to take shelter in its soul.
The warmth and energy it emitted was
more luscious, more lucent
than my own.
The rise of energy lead
me to a moment of clear elation
yet a light intoxication
of a love and power
so divine that it could not be mine.
I surrendered to the meop and apologized
for thinking I could be its shelter,
when I was the one who needed it.

"It was at that age that poetry came in search of me"

The Dance of Enchantment

So, my friend D. is courting a young lady and commissioned me to write a poem to help woo her. He's quite smitten and excited about her. I accepted the challenge to write a love poem though I've never met her. Her MySpace page confirmed she was a belly dancer and had eclectic interests in theater. It gave me some ideas. So I banged this one out quickly; he was IMing me while I was writing!

The next day, he told me she did like it. I kinda liked it too, and thought I'd share it.


The Dance of Enchantment
He first heard the tinkle
when he thought he was alone.
It was this stirring chime that
caused his heart to blink
a little faster, a little more in tempo.
It was a rhythm anew, yet familiar.

The golden chimes announced her before
she floated into the room
like a willowy bird.
Each step pulsed a song, guided by the thrust of her hips.
She let him watch the trembling movements,
knowing he was mesmerized
hypnotized,
magnetized
by her alluring dance

Her arms reached up to touch the sun.
She plucked it with the grace of ages and
tossed it around her wrists. Her silver bangles hummed
as he silently mouthed the lyrics to this new song.

A silken scarf flew into the air,
fluttering downward into gentle folds
and casting their charms upon him.
He gathered the scarf and breathed in
the soft aroma, allowing himself to succumb to the intoxication.

Her laughter had sparkled
and left a lingering glow
that he must follow.

Traces of Emily

This poem landed in my inbox from Poemhunter.com. I have always loved Emily Dickinson, and did a few deeper studies of her work. I don't remember reading this poem, but I found that it reminded me of one my poems. Perhaps I did read this, and traces of this poem had stayed with me in my mind.

"Why do I love" You, Sir?
Because—The Wind does not require the Grass
To answer—Wherefore when He pass
She cannot keep Her place.

Because He knows—and
Do not You—And We know not—
Enough for Us
The Wisdom it be so—

The Lightning—never asked an Eye
Wherefore it shut—when He was by—
Because He knows it cannot speak—
And reasons not contained—
—Of Talk—
There be—preferred by Daintier Folk—

The Sunrise—Sire—compelleth Me—
Because He's Sunrise—and I see—
Therefore—Then—
I love Thee—

~*~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~*

Violet Hours

And though they share the breath of Dawn,
the morning Dew does not
listen to the Stars.
She surfaces when she chooses.
One day, she realizes that

there is a song she had not heard before.
The Stars.
They rise alone,
and long to touch the other,
to know what it means to glisten
in the violet hours.

Dew stands atop cushions
of Grass, but she
tumbles
down.
into
Mud.

We mustn’t try to so hard.
We should stay where we are.

Oh, would you have me dance alone,
ne’er be able to wipe your delicate tears?

Dew leaps and the Stars dive,
but each fades into the arms of the Sun.