‘these are things that are. such as
these, these and these’ and Other Poems

these are things that are. such as
these, these and these.

 

the bower of branches crisscrossing

 

above, and the sparse light parsed by

 

all the laws of light and falling onto

 

the many layered leaf, of the leaves

 

of many layers, of the decomposing

 

forest floor, of the organism that lives

 

in the leaves, and leaves, but yet

 

it still is, beneath, from above, this

 

is something that is.

 

 

at one point of time, something was

 

done. something is being done. in that

 

something, the things that are to be

 

done line up in perspective all zeroing

 

into that dot on the horizon. unsplitting,

 

unsuspecting in the formation of a note,

 

a syllable, a dot, all of them, spontaneous,

 

river drop, river bed, pregnant cloud,

 

the circle of water, the cycle of death,

 

the cycle of being.

 

 

being opens its eyes only when there is

 

thirst, then water is found, and then the

 

eyes are closed, yet the water still is, so

 

is being, and neither knows the other, the

 

other is the one, the source thirsts, the source

 

of thirst.

 

 

and memory, it collides, bricks are being built,

 

being built from the soil: the superstructure of points,

 

cascading ambition and the slippery slope

 

of the climb. memory is this, so are you, in you is

 

memory, it is in you, just as you are it, think

 

about it and it fades, you fade, yet you remember

 

what you were, now you are and these are

 

such things that persist and are, they are, they’re all.

 

 

---

 

redemption song for joseph

 

the chair had a very flat top

 

 

its brimming but not a drop

 

of water is spilling

 

 

from the crafted surface

 

 

I can hear him sharpen his files,

 

the father of the son of God

 

*

 

we aspire

 

to fullness.

 

 

the transient nature of things

 

 

is revealed when I leave the chair

 

 

my feet probing

 

the cool verandah

 

*

 

from the first breath was issued the first rock.

 

between these two events, millions of events.

 

the first rock was shaped and went through many

 

many many carbon dreams. then ideas

 

water, the surface, sky, rupture, voices within

 

closed rooms, the first virus was born. it felt

 

powerless, pointless, immortal and so

 

it took form upon form upon form. still

 

dreaming, it descended. upon arriving,

 

it had an idea: I shall rise.

 

*

 

father,

 

fruit of this tree

 

 

you’ve been through the thousand

 

phases of compression

 

to arrive at this moment of falling

 

 

so fall to the ground

 

and let the marrow spill

 

one day you’ll become a tree

 

---

 

notes in a train part 1

 

a year after college

 

the narrator started travelling.

 

 

on a train, a distant girlfriend

 

asked a question through the phone.

 

 

he did not say, ‘I have embarked

 

on a search for God’

 

 

or did he? memory fails.

 

it could have been anything

 

 

perhaps the perfect tomato.

 

what would that be like?

 

 

fed on the lush alluvium

 

of a french village

 

 

sweet and oddly shaped

 

so tender, unwilling

 

 

into a boiling pot for blanching

 

and the ruthless skinning —

 

no, it wasn’t God he was looking for.

 

it could have been anything but.

 

 

he recalls that day. today, a sudden

 

grinding of cogs, rusted machinery

 

 

a sudden unease that twists the spine

 

shapeless. he is not at home,

 

 

there are no tomatoes, cheeses.

 

no goats standing tall,

 

 

just a plain sunflower horizon.

 

the sharp twang of a late autumn.

 

 

he picks up the fallen bicycle

 

then feeds his eyelids, shut

 

 

to the lush glow of sun

 

falling into the skin,

 

 

the incarnadine

 

of his own eye.

 

---

 

notes in a train part 2

 

a straight-faced man rises from his seat.

 

midday, highlights clipping, the heat, bearable.

 

his nose is a feature, underlined by a thick dyed block of black.

 

he rises and becomes a man. then disappears in passing.

 

 

this is going to be a long journey.

 

a few days ago, today

 

and all of today’s plans

 

were just numbers. the next thing I know –

 

 

I’m packing sambar, hot

 

one fried mackerel, rice steaming in a leaf

 

and the sun rains down. I’m running

 

with my intent packed in plastic, crossing the ballast

 

and climbing into the train. the man exits.

 

 

my mother had called, unaware. objected to my indifference.

 

but I confused her for another mother. in this midday locomotive,

 

I’m thinking of my mother.

 

 

behind closed eyelids, relativity disappears. and

 

so does einstein’s wild, wild hair, mine, and everyone else.

 

all directions converge at one simultaneous point. truth is,

 

we’re probably afloat .      and the paravur lake

 

passes beneath. but that is only the truth. who ever depended

 

on something so fickle? is it even worthy

 

of its space in the air? I turn my attention

 

to the sky. it looms above, nonplussed, dressed

 

in metaphor. an expansive skirt of joy.

 

I catch a glimpse of something

 

that refuses to cease.