Poem of the Month - June 2017

     
     
     
   
     
anda vetridam- a primal nothingness      
in nisabdam-  an absolute silence, a frozen chaos      
awaits a molten magmatic crisis-  the cosmos      
     
vacuum drains      
into frequencies of A-U-M:  emerging      
mantra-sabda brahmam aagiya manthiram      
reverberates in dislocating space fabric      
of a created bandwidth, the time matrix]    
     
     
     
     
you are here    
     
     
[1]    
     
the space.    in cloned simulations      
to linger on and on, perhaps      
the same frame in a literal sense      
     
‘mixed’ variables tested constantly taken      
for granted, by your fascinatingly obligate      
hypocritical mindset in dramatic twists      
blinded to your vibrations [His, the Sivam ]      
dosing in light waveforms      
unto yourself [Her, the Sakthi      
and, the essential dissolutions      
in the making –the consciousness      
Paramporul : the indivisible      
god particle, si-vaa-ya-na-ma    
     
     
     
[2]    
     
[it’s now]    
     
time.      take absolute liberty, crediting      
your built-up notional currency- lethally mutated      
from mantric frequencies, to insert ‘w.r.t.’  clause      
in your careful facultative constructs, and      
     
you [as if spontaneously] blush, [still remain a not so-wriggling      
lab-grown earthworm in bloodblue neonatal facades, wiped off      
its frequented clayey agglutinations],  in      
     
made-up white veils of the world’s Order keeper      
rolling out a disruptive discovery      
that’s posed as surviving us      
all along in its      
     
ticking abstractions      
     
 thrives more in an accelerative haul      
   -scenes flash fast, switch and wash away, drifting momentum carries      
    your ethereal bird, amidst the jetsam flotsam bits of flaunting preys      
    fished  alongside numerous widely slashed-open unstanching mouths      
    in stenches of prayers repressed to forgotten      
     
   it’s past deludes.. . in lame assumptions      
  of it being an attenuating base crashing down to no-value    
   or it’s still a dull clinical norm of some manipulative sterility    
        
     
     
absoluteness …its manifestations      
in imprisoned dying dimensions… makes your      
empire’s pawns of declared superiority?    
     
     
     
     
     
[3]    
     
words.    the  characters,   the  artetfacts      
mould to paint and slant upon      
your bends      
     
weighs on the [self-] bearer, in      
receptive ignorance      
     
their tendencies their claims    
     
and,  what and where’s thou art… the      
pretty elusiveness      
     
a random meaning[less]ness    
     
a chaotic composure      
translated in no measure      
     
silence    
     
an orgasmic silence setting in      
surrendering contractions in tears      
killing fear and egoistic wears      
     
a wildest pureform birthed      
wrapped in just ‘congruent’ angular      
bandwidths      
of an impossibly absolute suchness      
to still possible extremities:  shrunken    
miniatures to the stretched hypes      
felt in the same essence      
     
     
and, NO.   not your  ‘tools’ again – your casual      
corrugated to vomited geometries made look civil, where      
     
     
He is a smothered scopeless concept    
a force-designated auditor in the counting deviations      
to set straight your deals      
     
     
In you, He in his separation of Her Light, a    
cancerous darkness- deep-burial      
grounds of Consciousness    
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
p.s:  Saiva Siddantham digs base for this scribe. All italisiced words are pure classical Tamizh      
And as Bharathi Says…”Rawthiram Pazhaghu”~ practise Rigteous Anger .    
That’s the NO in Essence I self-derive ..    
     
And saluting the spirit of NO...with 'NO means NO'-dialogue by legend AB/ Pink 2016...    
" “No” is not only a word...it’s a sentence by itself..it doesn’t need any explanation  or interpretation ...no simply means no"    
   
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
 

The green field starred with yellow dandelion
The six pronged telegraph pole a menorah
The back of my hand cold blades
Looking up at the menorah lit
Up like a burning bush
 
And I knew I had to be exactly here
Cock linnet trill from a redcurrant hedgerow
 
And every sod of this plot I've trod  
Shotting elation and sorrow  
As the heavens pull me up and the earth  
Spins down beneath
And in the meadow flowers between my fingers
Are your fingers
As we lay down close close to dawn
As night closes here lit
Up like the heaven
 
Up before bedtime
When my hand was  
Barely the size of my palm
 
A time when all I heard was
A summer smell of cut fresh
Warm light on my face
Light that bejewelled my eyes
And tingled my skin
Earth breath a warm breast
Beating beneath my head
 
Beaten and autumn
Up with nowhere to go  
Ruined in dismay heels broken
I saw the legend of the rainbow redolent  
Framing the sky blue indigo violet  
Red orange yellow  
 
Where there is might be there wisdom
Where there be wisdom come understanding
And from this knowledge  
The counsel that not all can be known  
For my eyes could not see
The rainbow was made of pure gold
Till it lit up the heavens

"None of the answers of my pious preceptors would satisfy me, and my demands that they cease taking things for granted quite upset them. Close reasoning was something new in their little world of Semitic mythology." - H. P. Lovecraft  

Read to me the lesson  
and I'll memorise the words,  
sing to me the standard songs  
and I'll recall the tune...  
 
The stories told  
time and time again  
create a world  
as wholly and as magically  
 
as when the eternal hands crafted  
sea, and sky, and soil.  
The Book is a door  
and the Word is a candle  
 
lighting the dark room beyond.  
When I am close to Thee,  
then I am close to a place  
where light charges the bones.  
 
So read to me the lesson  
and I'll memorise the words,  
sing to me the standard songs  
and I'll recall the tune...

     
sunday morning    
and I lie on the couch      
     
all about me      
lay books on the usual things;      
poetry      
strategy      
the philosophy of the greeks      
while BB King plays slow blues      
in the background    
to keep the noise of the city quiet    
     
downstairs      
the clothes drier does the work      
a slave would have done      
in the days the philosophers wrote    
     
and BB sings it still    
     
I have been here on this couch      
most Sundays      
for three months now      
except the ones spent at sea      
and even then      
the Sunday morning ritual      
remains the same;    
     
to read    
listen      
and look long      
at what I am      
     
first rule is      
look honestly    
     
second rule      
don’t fear      
     
third rule      
accept      
and change    
     
so I lie      
and look      
trawl through memory      
for lessons      
and there are plenty      
     
moments I missed      
women I didn't    
and jobs      
towns      
money      
come and gone      
     
always the leaving      
     
the greeks say      
don’t leave      
expecting change      
if the person you won’t love      
is the only one you have to take      
with you      
     
I’ve decided to put some roots down      
build a house      
build a shed      
put some grass under my feet      
after twenty years      
of moving moving      
     
not saying I’ve learned anything      
still don't love the guy      
who's followed me      
all these years      
carrying suitcases      
I never unpacked      
     
but I'm happy enough      
to stay in one spot      
and look close at him      
     
there comes a moment      
in any fight      
if you want victory    
that you have to let the enemy      
catch up      
   

long time    
the alleys bustled    
long time    
the madman hustled    
     
desert was    
always a desert    
till it gained a city    
of a solitary dweller    
     
the mad man lay    
looking skywards    
till sand blanketed him    
and then    
the sand itself was blanketed    
by the ocean    
as it moved in    
     
the desert    
remained a desert    
only worse    
this time      
of water      
and sand    
     
and when he opened his eyes    
the lids      
separated the sand    
could still see the blue    
from under      
the ocean    
which itself  
was under    
a golden hue    
     
he rose    
from the sand    
shedding clay and bones    
zooming upwards    
through the    
dancing Oar-fish    
to the surface    
only    
to look back    
under water    
the city still there    
this time    
a pile of bones  
a solitary skull    
housed  
in a rib cage    
     
     
     
     
© KDAmB 2017. All rights reserved.

Dear stranger! I want to turn into you,
You must be the one, she never looks at nor speaks at, (yet, you would be
      addressed politely and even respected,)
It would never occur to her to insult you, and to think of you as she knows
      everything or anything about you,
You could be her doctor, or lawyer, or therapist – her authority figure she
      seeks for advice, trusts, you’ll get paid in return,
You would stand by her in the tramcar, watch outside from the very same
      window, accidentally rub hips, shoulders with her, or bump your bags,
You are some face on a cover of a paper or a magazine, someone recognisable,
      yet unreachable – someone never expected to be met,
You surely live the modern man life, eat the same, sleep the same, wear clothes
      the same, go places, and buy stuff the same,
I am you and I am not you, as I was her trusted confidant and she was to me
      too,
I am to her a different kind of stranger now, and to her I am not me.


inspiration taken from To a Stranger, Calamus by Walt Whitman

i

In a dark hollow of oblivion
At the zenith of my intrepid vitality,
A hollow envy does sear the severed mind,
Blinds the light as the darker spheres align;

Here the waving, here the paths unwind,
Here in our dark groping places
The oiled emerald crown tears at the forest nerves,
Bellies in the crested scales, a dragon in her gown,
Down soft as the stars slowly drop;

Her trailing delights, an intrepid dizzy hop,
Born in this coil misery, broken as the ancestral harp
Burns the finger in the crooked act.

Down there in the bright rooms we made our dizzy pact,
Forgive us Jove, our gaseous drives assume dominion,
And in our hollow void of confusion,
We find a city of dark communion.

Our frail grasp of hypnotic control,
Under a milky bridge, the starlight troll
Breaks a promise, drags the teeth closer,
Reforms a monster through every cloudy mouth.

Burn and sink our seeming seek of shelter,
Our common tongues refined to fill
The druid time of hollow estrangement,
Waking as the silver walls of brick
Flake and crumble to the fallen, languid still.

Let our circling quests enlighten,
Where the mammals settle and swirling frighten,
A wicked wild gust thrust the glutton to the throne;

Our hollow mild babbles let the planes and tissues freely ravel,
Let the brittle drones of music fill the hollow bone.



ii

Convert the starlight limbs and sleeves of light,
Let them forage through the purple hue,
There, her serpent wrought in the awkward instance,
Slithes in shields of silence, a broken fate,
Whirls as smoke to naught on a blade of wind,
There, the morphic blathering mass.

Let our devout languages fill the hollow voids of importance;

There the assertions fail with every crack
Of each cold hand, dead and pale.

Our mystic shimmers throbbing from the palms,
To rise the object untouched,
Face the lawless darkness with unfelt time
And turn the flabby mammals to an unencountered rhyme.

Yes, our quest to learn the rest,
To straddle in her lean, sapphire chest,
Our quest to wander in sterile manifest,
Through the hollow leave of unseen realm,
Through again an unperpetuated time.

To have control,
And leave our land of worries,
To face the end in a nauseous chaos of strengths,
And pleasantly return to our place of hollow belonging.



iii

I had her in the clutching spell,
A dry rock touched again by that silver rising sea;

But again the partial doubts overwhelm,
And the laws of carnal time smother to a slumber;

Even at my nineteenth round about the central hollow fire,
The force that whirls the winding frame of naught
Took her as I forged through vegetative ought;

And even at this zenith of illusion,
My mind is limply woven to seclusion.