deepundergroundpoetry.com
Salt & Soil Of This Hearland Soul.. Is Of~For You, My Core~ Sun
salt & soil… of this bare all 'sky & flesh'
heartland soul ..achingly beats for you..
(90 years of the 'Vedaranyam Salt March'
flash in the news now.. brings back the very
essence of freedom.. in each breath.. in
self~ dignity & revolutionary motherland
presence... of a no slavish regime...
.. & so does Love blooms.. & have the highest
flights of the ceaseless skies… in utmost truth
& freedom... this Us manifests as thus )
in spite of this beaten tinsheet heart.. as tympanal
tintinnabulations ... in screechy scratching dents of
an irreparably corrugating harsh cacophony
with these sunken tonnage of the swollen eyelids
mounting as bulbous blown clouded blockades
the cochlear vacuuming funnels are filling faste in
muted itches.. with the siliceous gritty silts of the
tense ticking sand clock densitities..
frozen feet lying in cracking cramps...are the anaemic
pandemonic logs.. pain in their forced immobilities of a
difficult silence.. of the deathly quequed guillotine rows
...even the flowing in air columns... roughen them to
weathery shredding leathery strands.. of numbness
(stars burst as blinding super novae exploding dusts
..far in the mysteriously collating skies of a wobbly
silken weaving invisibilities.. of pure & plain spread
of flowing viole~ taffeta~ habutai & muslins.. its
essential soulcore yet in the texturing stiffness of
a simplistic starchy white calico & cottony fabric
the hazy half moon in an incremental blotty nakedness
..shines in a dazing drowsiness, fades often to an absence
in its maniacal ‘hide & seek’ plays with(in) the bits & pieces
of jetsam~ flotsam~ lagan & derelict running b&w clouds)
the empty pages of my scribbling diary... is over now.
as if in physical barricading prompts to this ongoing
boundlessly maddening illegible ritual I fill & fill.. in these
bound cellulosic bundles... to-be~ in mere termitic erosion
(the days. the so~ days.. come & go. moreso the birthdays..
almost turn deathdays.. when those ones & ones… of the
fated or perhaps deliberate diversions.. are in the vanishing..
by the evenmore deadly meted out ignorance.. yet still
do I remember crystal clear.. those days & faces.. those
self~ mummified faces in the crumbling.. as if I construct the
imaginary them..back time & again.. of the unforgotten times..
however toxic those acidic rains that this earth drank them all..)
this day. the may day dawns in a more than bearable the
coolest time of the day @24 degree celsius.. the reddened
skies with the ball of fire, a ‘sindooram' sun pours down its
unlimited mellowing rays over the raising thorny fingering
bold branchlets of a magenta bougainvillea rooftop vine..
from its pastel lemon-yellow painted home in the visions
(peacocks in deep echoing scream.. busy narrative
mynas of the coconut treetops.. & the softly north easterlies touch~
verse in random dashing wavelets over these vastly unworked cheeks..
soothes as pluming flute streams over the heavy~ loaded sleeplessly~
stinging eyes… in an ever undifferentiating chaos of the known~ unknown
times... with dreamy surreal mixing visions.. the many n-terabyte to infinite
miscellany embedded hard-set glacial eyes.. now melt as the involuntarily
overbrimming hot spring river origins of translating tears.. the supreme
scriptless language of the soul.. )
as I say to you..
“only tears well up in place of words, my love.. in Love”..
all I see & remember & breathe .. in each rooting needs
of this agelessly synthesizing tree soul .. is you, this Us..
this Love..my ever flaming photonic Sun in the worship
.. as i scribble & soulblabber as ever.. in divine transpire
#26 #ERULGCT
Published 1st May 2020
Author's Note
#26 ERULGCT.. another of 'flow the flow' soulblabberations.. in~of~for Love.. in times of the newness now~ in variegated layers of memories, dreams, past.. with~ within the nature ( the soil~ soul~ sun of Us) you know. Love You, Robonoid. Love You All Du xx:)
*'sindooram" : Tamil Word, Meaning tradinional vermilion worn on forehead of married women
Pic: Web. (Rann of Kutch, India. Salt Marsh Lands & the Sun)
*'sindooram" : Tamil Word, Meaning tradinional vermilion worn on forehead of married women
Pic: Web. (Rann of Kutch, India. Salt Marsh Lands & the Sun)
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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2nd May 2020 2:58am
Peacocks screaming, and I can see the color of it. You always do that for me Uma. Such visual strength in your poetry...layers of reds and the earth. You find nature and it drips to bleeds on your paper, you find the world and it's unbearable emotion and show the love that rises above this.
Much love and peace sweetness
Much love and peace sweetness
8th May 2020 00:10am
This coming from the deepcore poetic expressive & the adored you Jen..love you so much for your reads & words you reflect so beautiful .poetry in itself... light & love ev dear x:)
2nd May 2020 3:10am
Why is it that everytime I read your poetry I feel like I'm experiencing a translated text of a rare veda? Yours is the poetry you read late at night when it's quiet and the spirit is seeking respite from the world into an ancient, mystical place when the magic of belief was common and the fruits readily available to eat.
8th May 2020 00:11am
wordless.. you make me wordless dear A... much love & adorations my Wise Shining Poet of all seasons..xx:)
2nd May 2020 6:51am
The power of satyagraha...Gandhi taught much...a spiritual masterpiece uma.
Peace...Harry
Peace...Harry
8th May 2020 00:14am
thanks much for digging the revolutionary history of 'ahimsa' freedom struggle ..thru the essential salt march.. Gandhi has shown mankind 'the' way for anywhr anytime... Light & Love Harry :)
8th May 2020 00:22am
I own several books on the great man Uma...including a very interesting one on his dietary habits. Peace my friend.
2nd May 2020 2:17pm
Totally concur with all comments ^
Sadly, there remains an element of Little Englanders (Well, Brits really) who still bang an empire drum. Imperialism such a feculent stain on our history. A fun game of the slave trade anyone? Think it cos we are an island.
Words are such a fusion of grace, spiritual awaking & all we are. Having a few hours of jukebox lockdown and sometimes your words (probably just me) remind me of Joy Division (Ian Curtis). Complimento. Voyeurism of romanticism. Love Ron ;) xx
Sadly, there remains an element of Little Englanders (Well, Brits really) who still bang an empire drum. Imperialism such a feculent stain on our history. A fun game of the slave trade anyone? Think it cos we are an island.
Words are such a fusion of grace, spiritual awaking & all we are. Having a few hours of jukebox lockdown and sometimes your words (probably just me) remind me of Joy Division (Ian Curtis). Complimento. Voyeurism of romanticism. Love Ron ;) xx
8th May 2020 00:19am
history is never going to be rewritten... bit yes, Brit Imperialism hav done one single big thing.. united all the small lil the so~ million kingly provinces as India... & of course the world has seen a Gandhi..
such praise coming from the ultimate poetic you .. sounds flattering;) love you to the core xx:)
such praise coming from the ultimate poetic you .. sounds flattering;) love you to the core xx:)
2nd May 2020 2:35pm
8th May 2020 00:20am
8th May 2020 00:02am
8th May 2020 00:08am
