kritya

Scent of Spices

2011-06-29T21:05:00.000+05:30

Prologue

I am still completely intoxicated, in love.
And with this love, I watch the circle.
- Chogyam Trungpa
Yesterday, I took some photos
of my feet at the lake, the camera
did you know?
- it is an ordinary one
Yesterday my feet, you know?
my feet are always wet
from standing in sweet water
Wet from waiting
waiting for you, my love
***
1. Poet’s pyre

In a blindfold world
I go beat the deathless drum
– Bhikku Nanamoli
This is not the first poem
I have taken out from the dusty old file
there are a number of poems which are still
fresh and smell of new earthen pots
Agnaye swaha!
it is the primary offering for the pyre
the journey into your being
and not being
You were here till yesterday
and in the yellowness in the corners
of leaves you now stand as a pen in my hand
in its scratches on paper
you are the rolling wind through my fan
I smell you as I smell sharp spices
Agnaye swaha!
thist is the second offering I make
for your pyre
The boat is in the sea
the net is in the boat
the fish is in the net
the fisherman is killing the fish
blue is a shade that fades
a boat is the one that sinks
I am fish for you
Agnaye swaha!
you are
in the verses of this poem’s remains
we wrote them together, remember?
the words
the melody
the hum of our breaths
you are in here
in the threads of my thoughts
in the endless infinity of my love
for you
Agnaye swaha!
and for ever and 4 days
you will remain with the poem
and the empty box
and the fallen leaves from trees
and the smell of spices as it fades away

2. Marks of deterioratation on New Moons Day
When I meet the right consort
my thoughts become clear
- Chogyam Trungpa

This time again
you have given yourself up to prison
you have build the walls yourself
and now you live in the heavy dungeon
even cracks won’t allow entry
A draft, but inside I see you smile
you shine like the light of the sun
oh what glow your name still have!

This time you have cheated on me!
I whom has given you warm kisses on your feet
and stroked your whole body with my eyelashes

Last night, on my window sill
I saw the marks of deterioration
and of creeping death
of my poems endings
the corpses, and my fingers are stiff
with pain in my neck
and shoulders
the crack’s inside
inside my body ache is at war
I am turning from river to blood
3. I am afraid of thunder
Sesame oil is the essence.
Although the ignorant know that it is in the sesame seed,
They do not understand the way, effect, and becoming.
- Chogyam Trungpa
For long while a smile is coming to me
like the butterfly
it flutters to lips
but I am still afraid of thunder
What will happen when thunder
awakens me?
The pathways are disappearing
and in the undergrowth, shadows of Pipal trees
there’s a thousands deaths waiting
on every branch
never a nightingale!
Oh, shall I clap my hands
and see how they scatter away my fear?
Fly away, come away with the sound
of the clap of my hands!
I am the vulture preying on the bird
of love
I am dipping my fingers into its broken feathers
searching for vermin to scatter them
into the holes of snakes
Oh look at you, a half broken branch
about to fall!

You are an illusion in my hallucination
- but I knew this for a long time now -
you are selfless selfishness!
I have learned that from your company
I have discovered how you are my myth
I cannot leave you

Because your love is sweet honey
on my lips
your nectar, the nectar
dripping into my neck
its from the lotus
it comes from Udaipur
oh do not leave me!
The pen on my desk
its inscriptions and strokes
I will not write!
Just shelter me and hide me
in the eye of a needle
in the threads of things I have left alone

4. Amberiod flower

The birds warble their glad songs.
Spring blossoms in the treetops.
- Louis Nordstrom.
A long time ago, I
but then my amberoid flowers
oh my sari
it was the fragrance I send you
through the cracks in the walls
hoping to cover
the distance towards you

5. You are mehandi, the henna of Full Moon's Day
How much more so when perpetually diseased
By the manifold evils of desire?
- Shantideva
I have discovered my feet
and after walking almost half of the way
to where you are
Oh what is that strange!

And now on the road to red lotuses
where my heels had treaded
there are blossoms between my toes
red Valentine for good luck!

I adore my feet
they have faces
What is this, your fingers
are you stroking
touching
feeling my faces?

My dost lovely friend
you are mehandi, the henna
to decorate my feet
I draw flowers for you on my feet.
Vasant spring is already here!
the sun is shining
take off your sweater, my love!

shishir is when ice fall from the heavens
greeshm summer is green
and on my shoulders
I am ready for running
just put a finger tip on a toe
and write your name onto it
my journey is flashing pink
more red than ever
- my journey towards you

6. Tickle and dance
The trees and also the great woods
All are made splendid in the 10 directions
– Edward Conze
This is not a river, so it doesn’t need
the mountain to shoulder against
it is a lake! The sweet Lake Udaipur!
The honey lake in the lap of the marusthal desert
it’s kokh womb never gets dry
it never goes from here to menopause

no, no my dost lover! My lover!
You can’t lit the pyre with or on it
neither on my sari pallu’s end
that’s reserved for my children
to play on
to tickle me on
- hear them laughing and dancing

Look! Oh look! I am not dried up water reservoir
I am the lake, my womb is the water
This world is inside me!

7 -Cuppan chuppi- Hide-and-seek
In the sea of my mind the words as waves have risen
In recollection of the Great Queen
- Chockyam Trungpa

Lake! O dear Lake! Play Cuppan chuppi
hide-and-seek with me!
I turn and run away from Udaipur
I hide myself behind a coconut tree
Where is that girl?
where she is?
where is my playmate?
oh this is—chooooooo!

Time passes by, days.
I have forgotten to show myself, forgotten it!
like I have forgotton the way in which I
had come to you first
my dear lake! My dear lake!
you changed your sari’s colour!
You wear no veil!
Why is there a teardrop in your eye?
Is it because of me?

Where is that girl?
where she is?
where is my playmate?
oh this is—chooooooo!
Will they come look for me?
I am sitting in the shrub of thorns
8. Hands on shoulders
I go to Kasi’s city now
To set the wheel of law in motion
– Bhikku Nanamoli

Rivers run and can meet each other
but sakhiyan friends never meet again in life
after their marriages, when they have left
with their love ones
they never come back
Come, put your hand on my shoulder
I’ll keep mine on yours.
Come let us gossip, that neighbouring girl
she fell in love
between the earthen walls
separating the fields
let us weave the thread of gossip
as long as the threads of memories

9 . Anklet bells on Protector's day

Dancing in space
Clad in clouds
Eating the sun and holding the moon,
The stars are my retinue.
- Chocyam Trungpa

Come swim in me, come
do your washing in me!
come and clean your dirty dresses
because how much dirt can you carry
on your journey towards life’s end?
Come to meet me at lake Udaipur
come and spill your holiness in me
into my womb
when night falls
A thousand narataki dancers come out
to dance for me
Let us dance, my love!
dance with our breasts touching
dance with our colourful feet
full on the lotus bloom
Hear! anklet bells ring
chann-channn-chanan chann
Your diamond toe ring, white lily
play with my breasts
touch my nipples with your toes
play-run your feet over the valley
of my tummy
I have a thousand lotuses
for your hands and feet,
my feet, see how lush red
I am
blushing now!

Do not worry, my pilgrim!
Do not worry, my poet!
I have discovered all of my feet
again and again
and many, many years ago
I danced like a Raj Nartaki
Will you dance with me now?
I will teach you the journey of how feet
Charevehi! Chareveri!
keep on running
faster and faster
walking into arms of lovers

10. Small flowery marks of lotuses

Rain, sleet, snow, ice - as such
they may different, but when melted,
they're the same valley stream water.
- Thomas Cleary
That evening
at godhuli, when the cows were there
and the Temple bells rang
she came out from her hiding
Behind the mango tree, she – There!
A baby girl dangling from her arms
A baby girl pockmarked with small buts
of flowers
lotuses tied to her feet
Where will I take my child?
hush! do not cry!
look at Udaipur, the mother and father, sigh
What shall I do with a baby girl?
Drown it?
Why are a thousands baby girls wasted
on the shores of lake Udaipur?
Why every year thrown away
like poisoned sulphuric sand?

Look at the bird, it’s beak is yellow
that is my baby girl with a ribbon
she’s in the tree
she flies
she sings
and when she dives through the sky
her beak turns blue
blue like the Holy Blue Shrine
at the entrance of Lake Udaipur
It was a yesterday that she picked a berry for me!
today she picked two blue black ones
and offered it to my folder nest
for poetry, a papaya piece
she gave me
and a mango bite - so sweet
11. The singing mother on Dakini day

In the sea of my mind the words as wave have risen
In recollection of the Great Queen.
- Chockyam Trungpa

All the palaces and pearls in the world is for you
my son
oh mother, for me your departure
do not send me away!
do not send me far away, oh mother!

She was singing on the banks
of Udaipur
at the wide open lake
send me away not!
do not send me far away, oh mother!
I will be the parrot in your garden
I will live in your golden cage
you can seal it tight with a song of yours
do not send me away oh mother
why did you send me away?
I am your daughter
I am your singing daughter
12. Pain like a blanket
Eating the sun and holding the moon,
the stars are my retinue.
- Chogyam Trunpa
The aroma of spices
The crosses over the lake
The crosses over the sea
The boundries across the sky
The day - is it
your gift to me or
mine to you?
A yellow day
but why when I am happy
pain rolls over me like blanket?
13. Tale of the rain girl
May the Ocean benefit
Those who sail beyond the great sea.
- Chockyam Trungpa
The farmer girl sings
Give me rain, Black Cloud!
wet me completely, Black Cloud!

my crops are dry
Black Cloud, give me rain!

She begs for happiness
and love for her brothers
and her father
and her cow
and across the forest her voice
reaches the sea

But when she is living in the city of rain
her body is wet
and her heart goes
to where the peacock dances
on her thigh
to where the lilies grow
where she walks
Let my beloved come into my home
oh my beloved come to my house
I am a farmer's girl dressed
in gagara black
come to me my beloved
come to my dream
come with loosened hair and oared eye
come tonight!
but oh, please do not get lost
lost like sleep
lost like a far away lover
that’s never there
lost in the rain

no body knows the story after Pralaya, the doom
not even lake Udaipur
but me

14. Letters to my love

In the waters of the mind.
Even the waves break against it
And shatter into light.
- Achaan Chah.
I write letters to my lover
and letting them float on the water of Udaipur
I can see him dancing fishing them out

My letters are little lighting lamps
floating in the night on palms
of Banjarin street dancers

I wrote the words of the letters
on black papers
using black ink
will my beloved be able to read them
in red?

I wrote in the languages of love
Sanskrit – the only one I know
but what do I know not
will he read my letters in love
too?

He is my lover
he isn’t my lover
he loves me
he loves me not
oh daisy flower of love
make my love true for him!

invisible as the black worlds
in colourful Samsara,
Nirvana written on white
with white ink
no! he is red as the night!

O my dear lake
help me, where are you?
Udaipur come rescue me!
15. Aroma of love
Hears the limitless laughter of transcendent joy,
The poisonous snake becomes amrita
- Chogyam Trungpa
What is this, when I kept
3 ilayachi cardamoms on my palm?

We say farewell
the journey will be safe

you will come home
with the aroma of love!
***

Epilogue
Didn’t I tell you it was there?
You could have found it without trouble, after all.
- Louis Nordstrom.

Yesterday

Yesterday, I took some photos
of my feet, my running feet
the camera, you do know!
- it is an ordinary one

( This poem is edited by Greek poet Argo Spier)
Scent of Spices

Prologue

I am still completely intoxicated, in love.
And with this love, I watch the circle.
- Chogyam Trungpa
Yesterday, I took some photos
of my feet at the lake, the camera
did you know?
- it is an ordinary one
Yesterday my feet, you know?
my feet are always wet
from standing in sweet water
Wet from waiting
waiting for you, my love
***
1. Poet’s pyre

In a blindfold world
I go beat the deathless drum
– Bhikku Nanamoli
This is not the first poem
I have taken out from the dusty old file
there are a number of poems which are still
fresh and smell of new earthen pots
Agnaye swaha!
it is the primary offering for the pyre
the journey into your being
and not being
You were here till yesterday
and in the yellowness in the corners
of leaves you now stand as a pen in my hand
in its scratches on paper
you are the rolling wind through my fan
I smell you as I smell sharp spices
Agnaye swaha!
thist is the second offering I make
for your pyre
The boat is in the sea
the net is in the boat
the fish is in the net
the fisherman is killing the fish
blue is a shade that fades
a boat is the one that sinks
I am fish for you
Agnaye swaha!
you are
in the verses of this poem’s remains
we wrote them together, remember?
the words
the melody
the hum of our breaths
you are in here
in the threads of my thoughts
in the endless infinity of my love
for you
Agnaye swaha!
and for ever and 4 days
you will remain with the poem
and the empty box
and the fallen leaves from trees
and the smell of spices as it fades away

2. Marks of deterioratation on New Moons Day
When I meet the right consort
my thoughts become clear
- Chogyam Trungpa

This time again
you have given yourself up to prison
you have build the walls yourself
and now you live in the heavy dungeon
even cracks won’t allow entry
A draft, but inside I see you smile
you shine like the light of the sun
oh what glow your name still have!

This time you have cheated on me!
I whom has given you warm kisses on your feet
and stroked your whole body with my eyelashes

Last night, on my window sill
I saw the marks of deterioration
and of creeping death
of my poems endings
the corpses, and my fingers are stiff
with pain in my neck
and shoulders
the crack’s inside
inside my body ache is at war
I am turning from river to blood
3. I am afraid of thunder
Sesame oil is the essence.
Although the ignorant know that it is in the sesame seed,
They do not understand the way, effect, and becoming.
- Chogyam Trungpa
For long while a smile is coming to me
like the butterfly
it flutters to lips
but I am still afraid of thunder
What will happen when thunder
awakens me?
The pathways are disappearing
and in the undergrowth, shadows of Pipal trees
there’s a thousands deaths waiting
on every branch
never a nightingale!
Oh, shall I clap my hands
and see how they scatter away my fear?
Fly away, come away with the sound
of the clap of my hands!
I am the vulture preying on the bird
of love
I am dipping my fingers into its broken feathers
searching for vermin to scatter them
into the holes of snakes
Oh look at you, a half broken branch
about to fall!

You are an illusion in my hallucination
- but I knew this for a long time now -
you are selfless selfishness!
I have learned that from your company
I have discovered how you are my myth
I cannot leave you

Because your love is sweet honey
on my lips
your nectar, the nectar
dripping into my neck
its from the lotus
it comes from Udaipur
oh do not leave me!
The pen on my desk
its inscriptions and strokes
I will not write!
Just shelter me and hide me
in the eye of a needle
in the threads of things I have left alone

4. Amberiod flower

The birds warble their glad songs.
Spring blossoms in the treetops.
- Louis Nordstrom.
A long time ago, I
but then my amberoid flowers
oh my sari
it was the fragrance I send you
through the cracks in the walls
hoping to cover
the distance towards you

5. You are mehandi, the henna of Full Moon's Day
How much more so when perpetually diseased
By the manifold evils of desire?
- Shantideva
I have discovered my feet
and after walking almost half of the way
to where you are
Oh what is that strange!

And now on the road to red lotuses
where my heels had treaded
there are blossoms between my toes
red Valentine for good luck!

I adore my feet
they have faces
What is this, your fingers
are you stroking
touching
feeling my faces?

My dost lovely friend
you are mehandi, the henna
to decorate my feet
I draw flowers for you on my feet.
Vasant spring is already here!
the sun is shining
take off your sweater, my love!

shishir is when ice fall from the heavens
greeshm summer is green
and on my shoulders
I am ready for running
just put a finger tip on a toe
and write your name onto it
my journey is flashing pink
more red than ever
- my journey towards you

6. Tickle and dance
The trees and also the great woods
All are made splendid in the 10 directions
– Edward Conze
This is not a river, so it doesn’t need
the mountain to shoulder against
it is a lake! The sweet Lake Udaipur!
The honey lake in the lap of the marusthal desert
it’s kokh womb never gets dry
it never goes from here to menopause

no, no my dost lover! My lover!
You can’t lit the pyre with or on it
neither on my sari pallu’s end
that’s reserved for my children
to play on
to tickle me on
- hear them laughing and dancing

Look! Oh look! I am not dried up water reservoir
I am the lake, my womb is the water
This world is inside me!

7 -Cuppan chuppi- Hide-and-seek
In the sea of my mind the words as waves have risen
In recollection of the Great Queen
- Chockyam Trungpa

Lake! O dear Lake! Play Cuppan chuppi
hide-and-seek with me!
I turn and run away from Udaipur
I hide myself behind a coconut tree
Where is that girl?
where she is?
where is my playmate?
oh this is—chooooooo!

Time passes by, days.
I have forgotten to show myself, forgotten it!
like I have forgotton the way in which I
had come to you first
my dear lake! My dear lake!
you changed your sari’s colour!
You wear no veil!
Why is there a teardrop in your eye?
Is it because of me?

Where is that girl?
where she is?
where is my playmate?
oh this is—chooooooo!
Will they come look for me?
I am sitting in the shrub of thorns
8. Hands on shoulders
I go to Kasi’s city now
To set the wheel of law in motion
– Bhikku Nanamoli

Rivers run and can meet each other
but sakhiyan friends never meet again in life
after their marriages, when they have left
with their love ones
they never come back
Come, put your hand on my shoulder
I’ll keep mine on yours.
Come let us gossip, that neighbouring girl
she fell in love
between the earthen walls
separating the fields
let us weave the thread of gossip
as long as the threads of memories

9 . Anklet bells on Protector's day

Dancing in space
Clad in clouds
Eating the sun and holding the moon,
The stars are my retinue.
- Chocyam Trungpa

Come swim in me, come
do your washing in me!
come and clean your dirty dresses
because how much dirt can you carry
on your journey towards life’s end?
Come to meet me at lake Udaipur
come and spill your holiness in me
into my womb
when night falls
A thousand narataki dancers come out
to dance for me
Let us dance, my love!
dance with our breasts touching
dance with our colourful feet
full on the lotus bloom
Hear! anklet bells ring
chann-channn-chanan chann
Your diamond toe ring, white lily
play with my breasts
touch my nipples with your toes
play-run your feet over the valley
of my tummy
I have a thousand lotuses
for your hands and feet,
my feet, see how lush red
I am
blushing now!

Do not worry, my pilgrim!
Do not worry, my poet!
I have discovered all of my feet
again and again
and many, many years ago
I danced like a Raj Nartaki
Will you dance with me now?
I will teach you the journey of how feet
Charevehi! Chareveri!
keep on running
faster and faster
walking into arms of lovers

10. Small flowery marks of lotuses

Rain, sleet, snow, ice - as such
they may different, but when melted,
they're the same valley stream water.
- Thomas Cleary
That evening
at godhuli, when the cows were there
and the Temple bells rang
she came out from her hiding
Behind the mango tree, she – There!
A baby girl dangling from her arms
A baby girl pockmarked with small buts
of flowers
lotuses tied to her feet
Where will I take my child?
hush! do not cry!
look at Udaipur, the mother and father, sigh
What shall I do with a baby girl?
Drown it?
Why are a thousands baby girls wasted
on the shores of lake Udaipur?
Why every year thrown away
like poisoned sulphuric sand?

Look at the bird, it’s beak is yellow
that is my baby girl with a ribbon
she’s in the tree
she flies
she sings
and when she dives through the sky
her beak turns blue
blue like the Holy Blue Shrine
at the entrance of Lake Udaipur
It was a yesterday that she picked a berry for me!
today she picked two blue black ones
and offered it to my folder nest
for poetry, a papaya piece
she gave me
and a mango bite - so sweet
11. The singing mother on Dakini day

In the sea of my mind the words as wave have risen
In recollection of the Great Queen.
- Chockyam Trungpa

All the palaces and pearls in the world is for you
my son
oh mother, for me your departure
do not send me away!
do not send me far away, oh mother!

She was singing on the banks
of Udaipur
at the wide open lake
send me away not!
do not send me far away, oh mother!
I will be the parrot in your garden
I will live in your golden cage
you can seal it tight with a song of yours
do not send me away oh mother
why did you send me away?
I am your daughter
I am your singing daughter
12. Pain like a blanket
Eating the sun and holding the moon,
the stars are my retinue.
- Chogyam Trunpa
The aroma of spices
The crosses over the lake
The crosses over the sea
The boundries across the sky
The day - is it
your gift to me or
mine to you?
A yellow day
but why when I am happy
pain rolls over me like blanket?
13. Tale of the rain girl
May the Ocean benefit
Those who sail beyond the great sea.
- Chockyam Trungpa
The farmer girl sings
Give me rain, Black Cloud!
wet me completely, Black Cloud!

my crops are dry
Black Cloud, give me rain!

She begs for happiness
and love for her brothers
and her father
and her cow
and across the forest her voice
reaches the sea

But when she is living in the city of rain
her body is wet
and her heart goes
to where the peacock dances
on her thigh
to where the lilies grow
where she walks
Let my beloved come into my home
oh my beloved come to my house
I am a farmer's girl dressed
in gagara black
come to me my beloved
come to my dream
come with loosened hair and oared eye
come tonight!
but oh, please do not get lost
lost like sleep
lost like a far away lover
that’s never there
lost in the rain

no body knows the story after Pralaya, the doom
not even lake Udaipur
but me

14. Letters to my love

In the waters of the mind.
Even the waves break against it
And shatter into light.
- Achaan Chah.
I write letters to my lover
and letting them float on the water of Udaipur
I can see him dancing fishing them out

My letters are little lighting lamps
floating in the night on palms
of Banjarin street dancers

I wrote the words of the letters
on black papers
using black ink
will my beloved be able to read them
in red?

I wrote in the languages of love
Sanskrit – the only one I know
but what do I know not
will he read my letters in love
too?

He is my lover
he isn’t my lover
he loves me
he loves me not
oh daisy flower of love
make my love true for him!

invisible as the black worlds
in colourful Samsara,
Nirvana written on white
with white ink
no! he is red as the night!

O my dear lake
help me, where are you?
Udaipur come rescue me!
15. Aroma of love
Hears the limitless laughter of transcendent joy,
The poisonous snake becomes amrita
- Chogyam Trungpa
What is this, when I kept
3 ilayachi cardamoms on my palm?

We say farewell
the journey will be safe

you will come home
with the aroma of love!
***

Epilogue
Didn’t I tell you it was there?
You could have found it without trouble, after all.
- Louis Nordstrom.

Yesterday

Yesterday, I took some photos
of my feet, my running feet
the camera, you do know!
- it is an ordinary one

( This poem is edited by Greek poet Argo Spier)
Scent of Spices

Prologue

I am still completely intoxicated, in love.
And with this love, I watch the circle.
- Chogyam Trungpa
Yesterday, I took some photos
of my feet at the lake, the camera
did you know?
- it is an ordinary one
Yesterday my feet, you know?
my feet are always wet
from standing in sweet water
Wet from waiting
waiting for you, my love
***
1. Poet’s pyre

In a blindfold world
I go beat the deathless drum
– Bhikku Nanamoli
This is not the first poem
I have taken out from the dusty old file
there are a number of poems which are still
fresh and smell of new earthen pots
Agnaye swaha!
it is the primary offering for the pyre
the journey into your being
and not being
You were here till yesterday
and in the yellowness in the corners
of leaves you now stand as a pen in my hand
in its scratches on paper
you are the rolling wind through my fan
I smell you as I smell sharp spices
Agnaye swaha!
thist is the second offering I make
for your pyre
The boat is in the sea
the net is in the boat
the fish is in the net
the fisherman is killing the fish
blue is a shade that fades
a boat is the one that sinks
I am fish for you
Agnaye swaha!
you are
in the verses of this poem’s remains
we wrote them together, remember?
the words
the melody
the hum of our breaths
you are in here
in the threads of my thoughts
in the endless infinity of my love
for you
Agnaye swaha!
and for ever and 4 days
you will remain with the poem
and the empty box
and the fallen leaves from trees
and the smell of spices as it fades away

2. Marks of deterioratation on New Moons Day
When I meet the right consort
my thoughts become clear
- Chogyam Trungpa

This time again
you have given yourself up to prison
you have build the walls yourself
and now you live in the heavy dungeon
even cracks won’t allow entry
A draft, but inside I see you smile
you shine like the light of the sun
oh what glow your name still have!

This time you have cheated on me!
I whom has given you warm kisses on your feet
and stroked your whole body with my eyelashes

Last night, on my window sill
I saw the marks of deterioration
and of creeping death
of my poems endings
the corpses, and my fingers are stiff
with pain in my neck
and shoulders
the crack’s inside
inside my body ache is at war
I am turning from river to blood
3. I am afraid of thunder
Sesame oil is the essence.
Although the ignorant know that it is in the sesame seed,
They do not understand the way, effect, and becoming.
- Chogyam Trungpa
For long while a smile is coming to me
like the butterfly
it flutters to lips
but I am still afraid of thunder
What will happen when thunder
awakens me?
The pathways are disappearing
and in the undergrowth, shadows of Pipal trees
there’s a thousands deaths waiting
on every branch
never a nightingale!
Oh, shall I clap my hands
and see how they scatter away my fear?
Fly away, come away with the sound
of the clap of my hands!
I am the vulture preying on the bird
of love
I am dipping my fingers into its broken feathers
searching for vermin to scatter them
into the holes of snakes
Oh look at you, a half broken branch
about to fall!

You are an illusion in my hallucination
- but I knew this for a long time now -
you are selfless selfishness!
I have learned that from your company
I have discovered how you are my myth
I cannot leave you

Because your love is sweet honey
on my lips
your nectar, the nectar
dripping into my neck
its from the lotus
it comes from Udaipur
oh do not leave me!
The pen on my desk
its inscriptions and strokes
I will not write!
Just shelter me and hide me
in the eye of a needle
in the threads of things I have left alone

4. Amberiod flower

The birds warble their glad songs.
Spring blossoms in the treetops.
- Louis Nordstrom.
A long time ago, I
but then my amberoid flowers
oh my sari
it was the fragrance I send you
through the cracks in the walls
hoping to cover
the distance towards you

5. You are mehandi, the henna of Full Moon's Day
How much more so when perpetually diseased
By the manifold evils of desire?
- Shantideva
I have discovered my feet
and after walking almost half of the way
to where you are
Oh what is that strange!

And now on the road to red lotuses
where my heels had treaded
there are blossoms between my toes
red Valentine for good luck!

I adore my feet
they have faces
What is this, your fingers
are you stroking
touching
feeling my faces?

My dost lovely friend
you are mehandi, the henna
to decorate my feet
I draw flowers for you on my feet.
Vasant spring is already here!
the sun is shining
take off your sweater, my love!

shishir is when ice fall from the heavens
greeshm summer is green
and on my shoulders
I am ready for running
just put a finger tip on a toe
and write your name onto it
my journey is flashing pink
more red than ever
- my journey towards you

6. Tickle and dance
The trees and also the great woods
All are made splendid in the 10 directions
– Edward Conze
This is not a river, so it doesn’t need
the mountain to shoulder against
it is a lake! The sweet Lake Udaipur!
The honey lake in the lap of the marusthal desert
it’s kokh womb never gets dry
it never goes from here to menopause

no, no my dost lover! My lover!
You can’t lit the pyre with or on it
neither on my sari pallu’s end
that’s reserved for my children
to play on
to tickle me on
- hear them laughing and dancing

Look! Oh look! I am not dried up water reservoir
I am the lake, my womb is the water
This world is inside me!

7 -Cuppan chuppi- Hide-and-seek
In the sea of my mind the words as waves have risen
In recollection of the Great Queen
- Chockyam Trungpa

Lake! O dear Lake! Play Cuppan chuppi
hide-and-seek with me!
I turn and run away from Udaipur
I hide myself behind a coconut tree
Where is that girl?
where she is?
where is my playmate?
oh this is—chooooooo!

Time passes by, days.
I have forgotten to show myself, forgotten it!
like I have forgotton the way in which I
had come to you first
my dear lake! My dear lake!
you changed your sari’s colour!
You wear no veil!
Why is there a teardrop in your eye?
Is it because of me?

Where is that girl?
where she is?
where is my playmate?
oh this is—chooooooo!
Will they come look for me?
I am sitting in the shrub of thorns
8. Hands on shoulders
I go to Kasi’s city now
To set the wheel of law in motion
– Bhikku Nanamoli

Rivers run and can meet each other
but sakhiyan friends never meet again in life
after their marriages, when they have left
with their love ones
they never come back
Come, put your hand on my shoulder
I’ll keep mine on yours.
Come let us gossip, that neighbouring girl
she fell in love
between the earthen walls
separating the fields
let us weave the thread of gossip
as long as the threads of memories

9 . Anklet bells on Protector's day

Dancing in space
Clad in clouds
Eating the sun and holding the moon,
The stars are my retinue.
- Chocyam Trungpa

Come swim in me, come
do your washing in me!
come and clean your dirty dresses
because how much dirt can you carry
on your journey towards life’s end?
Come to meet me at lake Udaipur
come and spill your holiness in me
into my womb
when night falls
A thousand narataki dancers come out
to dance for me
Let us dance, my love!
dance with our breasts touching
dance with our colourful feet
full on the lotus bloom
Hear! anklet bells ring
chann-channn-chanan chann
Your diamond toe ring, white lily
play with my breasts
touch my nipples with your toes
play-run your feet over the valley
of my tummy
I have a thousand lotuses
for your hands and feet,
my feet, see how lush red
I am
blushing now!

Do not worry, my pilgrim!
Do not worry, my poet!
I have discovered all of my feet
again and again
and many, many years ago
I danced like a Raj Nartaki
Will you dance with me now?
I will teach you the journey of how feet
Charevehi! Chareveri!
keep on running
faster and faster
walking into arms of lovers

10. Small flowery marks of lotuses

Rain, sleet, snow, ice - as such
they may different, but when melted,
they're the same valley stream water.
- Thomas Cleary
That evening
at godhuli, when the cows were there
and the Temple bells rang
she came out from her hiding
Behind the mango tree, she – There!
A baby girl dangling from her arms
A baby girl pockmarked with small buts
of flowers
lotuses tied to her feet
Where will I take my child?
hush! do not cry!
look at Udaipur, the mother and father, sigh
What shall I do with a baby girl?
Drown it?
Why are a thousands baby girls wasted
on the shores of lake Udaipur?
Why every year thrown away
like poisoned sulphuric sand?

Look at the bird, it’s beak is yellow
that is my baby girl with a ribbon
she’s in the tree
she flies
she sings
and when she dives through the sky
her beak turns blue
blue like the Holy Blue Shrine
at the entrance of Lake Udaipur
It was a yesterday that she picked a berry for me!
today she picked two blue black ones
and offered it to my folder nest
for poetry, a papaya piece
she gave me
and a mango bite - so sweet
11. The singing mother on Dakini day

In the sea of my mind the words as wave have risen
In recollection of the Great Queen.
- Chockyam Trungpa

All the palaces and pearls in the world is for you
my son
oh mother, for me your departure
do not send me away!
do not send me far away, oh mother!

She was singing on the banks
of Udaipur
at the wide open lake
send me away not!
do not send me far away, oh mother!
I will be the parrot in your garden
I will live in your golden cage
you can seal it tight with a song of yours
do not send me away oh mother
why did you send me away?
I am your daughter
I am your singing daughter
12. Pain like a blanket
Eating the sun and holding the moon,
the stars are my retinue.
- Chogyam Trunpa
The aroma of spices
The crosses over the lake
The crosses over the sea
The boundries across the sky
The day - is it
your gift to me or
mine to you?
A yellow day
but why when I am happy
pain rolls over me like blanket?
13. Tale of the rain girl
May the Ocean benefit
Those who sail beyond the great sea.
- Chockyam Trungpa
The farmer girl sings
Give me rain, Black Cloud!
wet me completely, Black Cloud!

my crops are dry
Black Cloud, give me rain!

She begs for happiness
and love for her brothers
and her father
and her cow
and across the forest her voice
reaches the sea

But when she is living in the city of rain
her body is wet
and her heart goes
to where the peacock dances
on her thigh
to where the lilies grow
where she walks
Let my beloved come into my home
oh my beloved come to my house
I am a farmer's girl dressed
in gagara black
come to me my beloved
come to my dream
come with loosened hair and oared eye
come tonight!
but oh, please do not get lost
lost like sleep
lost like a far away lover
that’s never there
lost in the rain

no body knows the story after Pralaya, the doom
not even lake Udaipur
but me

14. Letters to my love

In the waters of the mind.
Even the waves break against it
And shatter into light.
- Achaan Chah.
I write letters to my lover
and letting them float on the water of Udaipur
I can see him dancing fishing them out

My letters are little lighting lamps
floating in the night on palms
of Banjarin street dancers

I wrote the words of the letters
on black papers
using black ink
will my beloved be able to read them
in red?

I wrote in the languages of love
Sanskrit – the only one I know
but what do I know not
will he read my letters in love
too?

He is my lover
he isn’t my lover
he loves me
he loves me not
oh daisy flower of love
make my love true for him!

invisible as the black worlds
in colourful Samsara,
Nirvana written on white
with white ink
no! he is red as the night!

O my dear lake
help me, where are you?
Udaipur come rescue me!
15. Aroma of love
Hears the limitless laughter of transcendent joy,
The poisonous snake becomes amrita
- Chogyam Trungpa
What is this, when I kept
3 ilayachi cardamoms on my palm?

We say farewell
the journey will be safe

you will come home
with the aroma of love!
***

Epilogue
Didn’t I tell you it was there?
You could have found it without trouble, after all.
- Louis Nordstrom.

Yesterday

Yesterday, I took some photos
of my feet, my running feet
the camera, you do know!
- it is an ordinary one

( This poem is edited by Greek poet Argo Spier)

Final

2011-06-29T21:04:00.000+05:30

“Final”
This word fills me
with fear these days
final wish, final moment,
final meeting…

I have no regrets
that I have met none in years
for I believe he lives
and exists
in some corner of this world

I hope , always
that he will come, one day
without warning, smile and grasp my hand
Perhaps even embrace me…

But what if this is our final meeting?
Then the sinews of my throat, like the Koel’s
will cry out and
break free form its cage

Will it flow out in a stream of blood?
This “final” word written with my life,
will it finally be cleansed free?

****

Return Journey of Moonlight

2011-06-29T21:03:00.000+05:30

1.

Mother is sleeping in
mortuary’s freezer
closed eyes
hands on chest
ready for purification in fire

Behind the glass cover
her closed eyes are
two butterflies sleeping
We feel as if they will flutter
at any moment
and forget to cry

2.

Geeta takes us
beyond death
After the fourteenth chapter

Mother's bed is empty
Where is she?
Under the glass?
Or sitting here
somewhere
listening to the Geeta
which she asked me to read
long long ago

We are not able to cry
Not even smile
But cannot be quiet
She comes in our talk
In our tears
And sometime in a smile
We feel her presence everywhere

3.

Forty-eight hours passed
on the iced bed
She had arthritis
Is this not too much cold for her?

Today she must go
Not by walking, she has forgotten how to walk for years
Not with the support of that stick she never liked
But on four shoulders
as she came in palaki after marriage

Mother is taking a bath
but why on the bed?
Mother is wearing clothes
while sleeping
Mother is getting ready
on the wooden structure

“You still have swelling on your right foot
how will you climb so many steps”?
Asks her daughter

She didn’t stop
She started her journey to make
fire more pious

Don’t cry mother asked us
This time rain came early
Sky did not know perhaps

4.

Mother's horoscope
in the lap of Geeta
old and crumbled
falls down as soon as
someone touches the paper
Every daughter has her own experience
And her own smell of memories
of mother
I am trying to peep in the corners
which are broken down
and find the life she lost

5.

Knots are open
Pot is broken
Wood is laid around
Grandson has given his offering to her fire

“May the doors of heaven”
elder daughter asked her god
Youngest one cried for
her lost nest

“Mother of daughter
is a queen”
Father's saying became
alive

6.

Mother liked the river
and its banks
the boats on banks
the swing of boats
a bath in river
and her own Krishna deity

Mother who is hidden in a small bag
was so happy to meet her friend river

There came a moon shadow
and then a bubble
Life is over

7.

She was the story
which is finished

She was power
which is diminished

She was moonlight
which went back

She was a chapter
which is closed

Tongues

2011-06-29T21:02:00.000+05:30

My mouth teems with tongues
of myriad hues and flavours
and turns of expression

At first there was
just one with me, just one
that I put on early in the mornings
and gave over to the care of sleep at night

I never realized when
the thing grew like the Aloe plant
began to divide
into two, then three and four sections

Sleep even now would take part in talk
with the help of tongues
days would lose their count
and dreams world be struck dumb
Yet in the midst of so many tongues

I have none of my own

Reincarnation

2011-06-29T20:56:00.002+05:30

Reincarnation

I placed my genes
On the table of laboratory
And thus began my search
For my past life’s story

My genes fluttered, but did not fly
Too well I understood
I was never butterfly
Never the bird
My wings never had that verve.

My genes lay still
Did not even crawl
I never lived the earthworm’s life

Forget the tales of ants and honey bees
I never could join the queue

I saw my self as table, as chair too,
And then come to know
I was a window
The open wide
The world peeps through
When closed, a number of worries
Behind me

I extend the window
To the floor
And make it a door
Open it and come out

Embrace,

2011-06-29T20:56:00.001+05:30

Embrace, it was in the last line in the letter
Embrace, I read as it is the only word

Exact in the middle of my head, sleep alighted
Sleep by sleep I burned and turned in to ash: entered
in to dark coolness

Embrace, Embrace - the pain wake up
Embrace, the sleep murmured
Embrace, the death smiled
Embrace, and
nerve by nerve I blossom in to white lily

She with out dreem

2011-06-29T20:55:00.001+05:30

Her head, tilted a little and
resting on the windowpane
hands folded, chest bent forward
Within the vibrating half open lips
peeps the tongue behind the cage of teeth

On this careless body only those two were alive
the half-closed eyes, so beautiful as they are open wide
I see very clearly a dream fly over them
It sits and flattens its wings and then flies away
Comes again with more colours, dances again like a peacock
She sleeps like an elephant is holding her in his trunk

Train was moving, so her body
trees, plants, homes and meadows, leaving them behind
a thud, train stops? her eyes are open
dream disappears,

how ordinary a woman she is?
I look at her without a dream

The hymn of lost slippers

2011-06-29T20:54:00.000+05:30

The hymn of lost slippers

The taste is very bitter, from tongue to throat, up to the intestine, bitterness everywhere
everything is bitter, the toothpaste in the tube, the broken brush. everything
till nightfall everything was fine, a good sleep and endless dreams . . .
most of the dreams disappeared with night, but they came with me up to the morning
and stuck to my eyelids till the eyes opened
there were a number of slippers and I was searching for mine
there my flight is ready to fly, here my slippers are missing
why should I give up my journey because of slippers? I told myself
but a journey without slippers, that also by air, is out of the question
how many steps can I walk without slippers?
these slippers are my foot, my legs and my knees
and my legs? Oh, they are only sticks
which cannot walk without slippers
slippers are my identity, they are my personality
they are my height, on which I can touch the sky
they are my present and future
they are the beauty of my dress
if a jewel is missing, no one will notice
but if the heel of a slipper is broken, the whole world will turn to you
in this case losing slippers is losing oneself
my journey is strarting and I am searching for my slippers
my flight is ready , but I am in search of slippers
my future is crying but I am in search of slippers
slippers are my Mantra, slippers are my Dharma
they are not missing, I am loosing my self

All those sins

2011-06-29T20:53:00.001+05:30

All those sins

All those sins
I am trying to forget,
piled on my back
growing as mountain

Now I am
a snail
slow, slow and slow
*

Time is changing
I look at the mirror

The Calendar is
only an echo of figures

*

Embracing the umbilical cord
I want to sleep
in the womb
of eternity

So?
should I pass again through
pangs of pains?

*

Every one in search of
a flute
to entice
all the rats

Chinese astrology
says
this is the year of the rat

*

I offer my karma
to astrologers
now they tell me
all about my
eating, drinking and sleeping

where is my upper part
above the neck?

Time near to me

2011-06-29T20:49:00.000+05:30

Time near to me

Today I woke up late,
Ignored the cup of tea,
Started reading an unknown Lithuanian poet.
His poems were open, like cattle
And my words started filling the spaces between them.

Today I ignored the unclean utensils in the sink,
Did not bother to fold the washed cloths.
I turned on the TV, changed the channels
And let my room fill with many voices.

Words took flight from my fingertips,
Fingers on the keyboard
When a poem took birth on my computer.
The time was wandering around me
Like my tame dog.

time table

2011-06-29T20:48:00.000+05:30

Give me a time table
Without my own time there.

Then give me a time table
In which only my time exists.

I will drink both time tables
Like a Mango shake.

My time will be inside me
And I will be out of it.

The frames of pictures...

2011-06-29T20:47:00.001+05:30

I always wish to
Fix myself
Inside the frames of pictures,
To become friends with
The walls.

I place myself into a
Picture from the eighteenth century.
Now I have only two colors
And one pose
But no butterflies on the flowers of
My blouse.

I walk way ahead of my time
Reaching into a twentieth century frame;
All of a sudden so many colors start jumping to me
That my first colors fade.

I don’t think that I can be a friend to the walls,
They only cross my ways.

Pictures, please wait,
Your frames are smaller than my height.

I wish to grow words

2011-06-29T20:44:00.001+05:30

I wish to grow words
unlike fruits
unlike Vegetation
or flower pad
Like jungle

Tall---short
Crooked--- banded
Weak - strong

Words

Grow as tress
Spread as grass
Climb as
climber
Bloom as flowers
Ripe as fruits

I

A bird
with yellow beak
will fly - will hop
will sing-will dance
until I change in to

WORDS

Not jungle

kritya2010

2010-03-02T12:54:00.002+05:30

This is the evening of the 5th of February 2010, the curtain of the Poetry Festival Kritya 2010 has just been dropped and we are all together, but in a mixed mood.We have been blessed by the golden glows of the most powerful poetry expressed. We are all bound by a feeling of fulfillment and bliss. We are all ready to journey back to our nests. Though we come from different parts of India and even the world, speak different languages, are torchbearers of diverse cultures, we are bonded as though we are one.Israel's Diti Ronen and Shyamla Nair from India are conversing as if they are long lost friends. I patiently tell them there are other people too from other places, to which Norway's Bjorn smilingly replies, "They will talk until world's Peace is resolved". The young Tibetan, Tenzin Tsundue, had claimed at the beginning of the festival that he was Tibetan not Indian, but he changed his thinking pretty soon. He said, "I belong here, I cannot leave this country." His pain hurt us also:"When I was bornMy mother saidyou are a refugee.your tent on the roadsidesmoked in the snow.On your foreheadbetween your eyebrowsthere is an R embossedmy teacher said.I scrubbed and scrubbed,on my forehead I founda brash of red pain.I am born refugee.I have three tongues,The one that singsis my mother tongue."Tenzin TsundueAlicia Partnoy's experience was not different from Tenzin's, she had her own land, but it was snatched away from her. She said-"They booted my home landOut from under me-what they call exile-That is- all of a suddenThe ground was goneAnd distance laid every where before me"But she herself got energy from this pain"And yetI still remember the day the military Put my home land behind barsOn that day, I had too much courageAnd the fear was goneThat's where it all began"In poetry, exile is not only from land, but even from life. Kabir Das has already said-"Rahane nahi des paraya he", I don?t want to lie here, this place does not belong to me."Zingonia of Italy created for us a distinct aura of exile ?"Birth:Mother faithThat trusts the worldA generous womb.The small cryAnnouncesThat from light,Slowly comes death;Every age arrivesPunctual,Celebrating the remembranceThat stillness approaches."The most senior poet of Costa Rica, Osvaldo Sauma says-"do not fearas soon as you cross the passage of lightthe houris will restore your child heartyou?ll play again in the sun of the departedand I will give my Fatherthe embrace I could not give in his deathto my Father who lies nowalone in Port Father"Blessed with poetry we are like honeybees, a little tired but very fulfilled. In this journey we had poetry films from Sadho from Delhi, and from Odveig Klyve. These films gave a different angle to the whole idea of the festival.In another part of CIIL, talented young artists were giving colorful expressions on canvas to the poems that had captivated them, in an art camp organized by Pranjal Arts. Friends, this is a common issue for February and March as we are providing a lot of poetry to be read.
You can read the very inspiring speech of our chief guest Mahesh Elkunchwar in the section 'In the Name of Poetry' and lose yourself in the timeless, beautiful poems of the Dalai Lama in "Our Masters.' Besides, we offer a feast of poetry in our segment 'Poetry in Our Time'--this time highlighting the poems of the poets who partook in the poetry festival.Hope to see you at our coming festival in Nagpur.

best wishes
Rati Saxena

Pagliarani, Matarrese and Saxena, poetry has no boundaries

2009-10-04T19:30:00.002+05:30

Pagliarani, Matarrese and Saxena, poetry has no boundaries

A full day dedicated to the contemporary poetry, last saturday.
In the Binario 7 theatre was organize the CReO, an international symposium with discussions, readings, peformance and video-poetry.
The day began at 10 in the morning with an alternation of examples of teaching poetry, especially at the local level, continued in the afternoon with a sigh more international and ended in the evening with “CReO international voice”.
Intruduced by Dome Bulfaro, the evening began with an interview in video, realized by Luca paci and [A]live Poetry, to Elio Pagliarani (born in 1927), one of the poets who most shake up the world of italian contemporary poetry. And, for sure, he shakes up from video the souls of the people that was there saturday evening. A man who tells you about himself reading his poems, especially from the book “La ragazza Carla” (The young girl called Carla), an experimental poem became his masterpiece. But also when he reads “Canto d’amore” (Poem of love) or the poems dedicated to his favourite poet: Pier Paolo Pasolini. A man who could have known through his wrinkles, his grimaces, his house submerged in books.
The evening goes on with a reading by Eleonora Matarrese with music by Ryck Valli: a long poem called “Die Welt”, that the young poet (born in 1976, with origin from Puglia) read with music. A “memento mori” disquieting and powerful, made even more touching to the intensity of the music.
At the end, guest of honor of the evening, the indian poet Rati Saxena (in the picture), introduced and traduced by Federico Federici. Rati Saxena dressed an elegant black sari and she read her poems in the original language. Poems in hindi, that are music, placidity, levity, quiet. And life. Poems, traduced by Federico Federici, that are words of love and friendship. The love and the friendship that we can find in the small things, for example insects and objects. This joyful poetry from Rati Saxena made the international also the evening of CReO: “An important evening – said Dome Bulfaro –that draw, through the English language, a bridge between Italy, United Kingdom and India”. An important evening ad the end of an important day that made global the local reality.
The day of CReO was organized by Mille Gru cultural association curated by Eleonora Matarrese, in collaboration with the city of Monza, the Binario 7 theatre.
www.poesiapresente.it

Potry-Poetry-Poetry????

2009-07-05T18:40:00.000+05:30

The Iranian poet, Reza Baraheni says that "Perhaps one could say that poetry is the most obscure thing that ever existed."

Let us reflect on the obscure nature of poetry in modern times. I would like to start with a personal experience. A few days back I had to apply for a tourist visa to Europe. I filled out the visa form in this manner; Profession - poet, and Reason for Travel- poetry reading. The girl at the visa counter looked puzzled; maybe she couldn't think of writing poetry as a profession. In the present day world, poetry has become just a part time hobby. One has to be teacher, doctor or something else before being a poet. Those days are gone when the job of a poet was a highly regarded one, and poets commanded respect in society. Today, a person can be a full time player, dancer, artist or politician, but cannot be a full time poet.

Every other branch of art seems to be lucrative, a painter for instance can sell his paintings for a substantial amount of money, but poetry cannot feed a poet. It burns away the poet's heart, and takes away his/her money.

Coming to Reza Baraheni's statement, I don't think that he means this when he says that poetry is the most obscure thing that ever existed. Maybe he was pointing a finger at both the ambiguity that exists in poems and the fact that poetry and the profession of the poet is more or less incomprehensible to many

Maryam Ala Amjadi, a young Irani poet tells us about the cruelty against poetry in her article on Persian poetry. She says that the revolutionary lips of the poet, Farrokhi Yazdi (1887-1939) were sewed together with needle and thread by the order of the governor of Yazd and yet, the inhumanity of this act did not stop him from keeping his pen in constant motion. Does this act explain the obscurity of poetry?

A Friend of a Tree

2009-07-05T18:35:00.002+05:30

"Let me introduce my best friend," he told us. We were already there in his big sitting room; can I use the term room? This was the shore of a big beach near the Roraing Sea in Rogaland. We had come to meet Helge Torvund, and he took us to the place where he sits, reads and writes. This was a cluster of rocks. We sat there, and read poems while he talked about his efforts to save this area. Because of his initiative this entire area is called protected area, where no one can even pluck a blade of grass.

Odvieg, a Norwegian poet and filmmaker who took us to meet him, had already told us about his work as a critic, a psychologist and a poet whose poetry is mostly related to the landscape of Rogaland. She also mentioned that he is one of the most important poets of Rogaland (Norway).

I was a little surprised to know that Norwegian writers still liked to write about nature, whereas in our own country it is considered old fashioned or anti modern. There is no doubt that Norway is the most beautiful country; if we talk about nature here, though it can be cruel at times, is remarkable for its lovely landscape. Before meeting Hegle, I had the impression that the poets of this area must be still impressed by nature and were thus writing mostly about nature.

When we went to see his friend a little away from the rocks, we were astonished to see a tall beautiful tree, who might have heard us talking.

I am sure that our Indian critics and progressive poets will not like this idea--they would call it Romanticism. The dirt and poverty is becoming so powerful that we just ignore the beautiful aspects of our earth. Slum dog has now become a world-famous problem, by showing slum dog worldwide, we say Jay ho - (poverty!) Jay ho - (dirt!); we do not want to talk about recession as this problem is related to wealth.

Now the question is whether what Helge is writing about or what he is doing can be classified under modernism or not. While talking to him I could understand his vision. Not only him, but also most of the other Norwegian writers and thinkers worry about the destruction of nature. The extreme climate, the truism, and ice games are pushing Norway towards global warming and as a result the glaciers are melting fast and trees are falling down. A common man of this country cannot survive without trees, without rivers and without grass fields. So we can say that the protection of nature is a very important issue for them.

Does it mean that this problem is restricted to a certain area, or place? Isn't it a global problem?

Does it mean that nature as well as the effort to save nature and the importance of being friendly to it must necessarily be a part of the discourses of modernity in literatures?

Nurturing nature does not mean neglecting other human problems. It is in fact the solution to the problem. Is it not true that most of the farmers are forced to become labourers and make more and more slums? Or, isn't it the inability to use nature in the proper way the main reason behind the increasing suicides among farmers?

I just want to quote Helge's poem-

I come back down the green hill

I'm happy as a loaf of fresh bread

I hold my arms out a little from my body

because I want to hug this shining day

In this instant in time I exist

and the trail caresses the soles of my feet

Nothing to do here but walk

Nothing to say here at all

A whole day's body full of light

In step with it under the sky by the river

Friends! This is the time, when we must start focusing our thoughts on what is right or beneficial for the entire humanity, in other words, for the entire Universe.

A poet should be brave enough to accept failures bravely

2009-02-25T16:30:00.000+05:30

"A poet should be brave enough to accept failures bravely, without this courage no one can be a poet" , these are the words of Ramakant Rath, a great poet of our time, living in Orissa. He mentioned this while talking about poetry. He explored his view saying - "Rejection is part of life, we face rejection everywhere, from everyone, from God as well as one�s beloved. But rejection in poetry is most common, so a poet should always be ready to accept this rejection."
I was surprised to hear this frank statement from an established senior poet. We always complain about non poetic life of poetry, we grumble for so many things, which come against poetry but are never ready to accept rejection. When we look back at the lives of great poets, we see that most of them had suffered in their life. Take the example of Kabir, Mira, Lalleshwari or Akka and others. All of them had faced a cruel world. Most of the time we feel, that if artists from other art forms can receive more recognition, then why can't a poet too get the same? I remember when Ayyappa Paniker, a great Malayalam poet remarked when we congratulated him on receiving the Padma Shri ( a high national award given by the Indian government) � "what is there to be happy about, I got this award after writing for 50 years, and a young cricket player gets higher awards in his twenties." And he did not go to New Delhi to receive the award. He was thus rejecting the rejection.
It means a poet should not only accept rejection, but also reject the rejection. Is it possible in this modern world, where everything is judged on the basis of its economic value? Doesn't a poet also wish to live like other artists in comfort? Is it wise to accept rejection with joy? Can't a poet live in comfort? History says a few poets lived in comfort too, especially in the court of kings. But we do not know whether they were happy or not. They might have faced rejection from their own souls.
Rejection is not new; it is as old as poetry itself. Than why do we worry about this? A poet should write what he/ she can write. But always be clear about his/her vision, thoughts and aim. Poetry should always be society oriented. A poem always takes birth from the pyre the poet has built for himself/herself. And if one has this boldness to accept rejection and pain, one can venture on the path of poetry.

2008-12-08T11:37:00.002+05:30

In this time of global crisis, we are all looking forward to a society oriented towards esthetic and wise solutions to keep ourselves from many kinds of artificial problems. And this was our aim at the Poetry Festival, Kritya 2008. In this land of ancient culture, we were there to reorganize and regenerate ourselves with the help of poetic thought. Poetry is indeed the most neglected but most important path to real knowledge and understanding in modern society. It is a human approach that will help us understand our universe, environment, society and self. This is the understanding which would lead us to more enduring resolutions.
Kritya Festival's unalloyed mission is to achieve harmony, both cultural and linguistic. It will widen the scope and reach of global literature, arts and culture, and fulfill its goal of promoting the aesthetic experience through poetry and the allied art forms. It will also provide a common forum for poetry-lovers all over the world to come together, showcase their talents and exchange views.
Kritya 2008, the fourth poetry festival celebrated by the Kritya organization, was held in Chandigarh (Punjab) in collaboration with the Punjab Arts Council and with the support of the Sahitya Akademi, CILL Mysore and other literary bodies in different countries. Now, once again I am back in my office, at Thiruvananthapuram in Kerala, relishing the memories of the festival. When I left Kerala for the festival, I was rather apprehensive of its success, as arranging such a festival in a new place is not a very easy task. But as I always feel, Kritya finds her way out of any difficult situation, on her own.
I started from Kerala all alone with a lot of worries, and books. Amit, the young poet and artist joined me in Delhi. When I reached Chandigarh, a young energetic writer Kripal joined me in my mission. Vijendra Vij was regularly working from Delhi. Shalbha, the Trustee of Kritya, joined us on 13th evening, and I must say that these four young supporters were the pillars of the success of Kritya 2008.
The guests of Kritya started coming to Chandigarh from the 12th evening itself. And by the 14th morning, we had poets from all over the world. Our inaugural session started at 10 a.m at the Punjab Art council. It was inaugurated by a great Indian poet Kunwar Narain ji, who had recently received the Jnanpeeth Award, which is considered the biggest award in India. The function was presided over by Dr. Swarn Singh, the Principal Secretary of the Punjab Government.
Immediately after the inauguration, the first poetry session commenced. The renowned Oriya poet Ramakant Rath ji was the first poet to recite his poems. The English translations of his poems were shown by projector on the screen and the Punjabi translations were read by the Punjabi poet Vanita. It was a wonderful experience for the audience to get the taste of poetry in their own language, side by side with the original language of composition. The senior most poet of the Indian poetic world, his poetry certainly had a significant impact on the audience. Then came Odvieg, with her small poems that attracted everyone?s attention. Once the poetry session started, every one got deeply involved in poetry. It was wonderful to find that people from all walks of life came to listen to these poetic sessions. Amazingly enough, I even saw a few people in monks? habit. That is what we want ? that poetry should reach out to all categories of people.
Following the first session, we had the second and third sessions. After that we had a session devoted to Punjabi Poetry. On the first day we had the good fortune to listen to some noted poets like Ramakant Rath, Dheer, Odvieg, Keki Daruwala, K Satchidanandan, Kunwar Narain, Nand Kishor Acharya. Vishvanath Prasad Tiwari , Tirrin, Vanita and others. We enjoyed listening to Sufi music on the first night, which transformed the mood of the audience. Next day we had poetry from morning to night. It was like a poetry Yaga. A number of good poets recited their poetry. The great thing was that no one wanted to move out of the auditorium, though they got tired sitting so long.
During the three days of this Poetry Festival, we had readings of almost 50 prominent poets. They included Ramakant Rath (Oriya) , Odveig Klyve (Norway), Keki Daruwala ( English), Natalia Toledo, Evelyn Holloway (Austria), Nand Kishor Acharya (Hindi), Triin Soomets (Estonian), Rocio Gonzalez (Mexico), Mamang Dai (Arunachal Pradesh), Hanane Aad (Lebanon, Uktamkhon Kholdorova (Uzbekistan), Kunwar Narayan (Hindi), Udaya Narayana Singh (Maithili), Ajmer Rode (Punjabi), Jaswant Deed (Punjabi), Parmindrejit (Punjabi), Jaswinder (Punjabi), Devneet (Punjabi), Nirupma Dutt (Punjabi), Neeru Aseem (Punjabi),Dr. S. S. Noor ( Punjabi), Shri Kikkeri Narayan ,Purnima Varman, Vishvanath Prasad Tiwari (Hindi), Santokh Singh Dheer (Punjabi), Satyapal(Hindi), K. Satchidananadan (Malayalam), Margus Lattik (Estonia), Robin S Ngangom (Imphal, Manipur), Chandra Prakash Deval ( Rajasthani) , Dilip Jhaveri (Gujrati), John Siddique (Irish), Vanita ( Punjabi), Surjit Juj ( Punjabi), Swaranjit Savi ( Punjabi), Araceli Mancilla Zayas (Mexico), Shambhu Badal (Hindi), Jiban Narah (Assam-India), Peter Waugh (Vienna), Surjit Patar ( Punjabi), Rati Saxena (Hindi), and Amit Kalla (Hindi).
We also had an open forum, in which the poets in the age groups 15 - 85 took part. Nayan Thara, a young poet from Kerala, came all the way to take part in this forum. This shows the importance of Kritya?s poetry festivals.
This time, the highlight of Kritya?s Poetry Festival was the art exhibition in which nine young artists displayed their artistic creations. Amit Kalla, Arti V Kadam, Daniel Connell, Divya Pande, Kuldeep Singh, Vijendra Vij , Vishal Bhuwania , Vijay Kadam and Yogendra Kumar Purohit were the artists who added a personal touch to the festival with their excellent creations. We had a double recording of festival, one in video, and the other in the sketches by these talented artists.
At the end of the Poetry Festival, the poet from Uzbekistan started dancing on the stage. All the others joined her on the stage and this was indeed a wonderful culmination to three days of poetic feast. In the evening we all went on a visit to the Rock Garden and met that great artist Neck Singh ji, who designed this marvelous garden.
Once again, Kritya's poetry festival remains as a treasured memory in the minds of all who shared the joys of this occasion.

Poetry in Life or Life in Poetry

2006-10-27T17:03:00.000+05:30

If we could divide poetry into two distinct kinds -- poetry attached to life, and poetry detached from life, then we have to think whether there can be poetry somewhere midway between these two. In such a condition what will poetry be? Detached in attachment or attached in detachment? Here we can think about poetry which is attached to life, but still keeps its own distance; or alternately even when not talking explicitly about life, would indeed be subtly hinting at life.
We mostly find that the poems which transport us away from life on the wings of imagination are mostly very attractive, but at the same time poems which talk to us directly about life leave us in a sad situation. But then the question arises that if poetry cannot talk about life, how then can it connect to people, society and humanity? But at the same time we see that highly imaginative poetry can attract people easily as they can carry them away to the happy realms of imagination. This world of imagination, though purely imaginary, evokes wonderful feelings, which generate a beautiful bond to this earth and life in spite of all difficulties. On the other hand, poetry expressing dire realities can be appreciated only by those who can empathize with the feelings expressed.
The next question is what does the word life mean? Is it the property of a man by which he can be bonded to the earth with his small joys, sorrows, desires and detachments? By which a man becomes a part of the earth, where he lives while dying and dies while living? Sometimes life becomes so cruel that it becomes the synonym for lifelessness.
When we talk about attachment to life, there are a number of meanings open before us. Attachment to life can be an attachment or affection for life, which has been persistently opposed by Indian philosophy. A number of great poets like Kabir have been discarding this world saying Maya Maha thagini, highlighting the world as a mere illusion which traps us in its folds. However, it was in this same land that Vatsyayan advocated temporal pleasures and projected a world full of vibrant colour. The concept of detachment is characterized by a dull colour which is quite removed from life. Life gets exciting colours from the earth, sky, and nature. It is bright, sometimes blue, yellow, brown and green. It is as rough as the earth, as wet as a cloud, as impressive as dawn. Words related to life should contain all these qualities; they should be bright and at the same time be capable of bringing the dullest emotions out. Alternatively they may be dull and at the same time bring out the finest feelings of the mind.
Words have the power to transform sad feelings of life into bright emotions, but in this case the reality of life becomes submerged in the beauty of words. It is as if life slips behind the curtain. When a clever poet talks about a poor beggar, it is possible that we enjoy the poet’s style and word power more than the sorrow of a poor soul. Once I was asked by an editor to write about the pains and sorrows of the fisherwomen of Kerala. He might have read about the difficulties faced by fisherwomen. I found it difficult to do it, as for me these women are symbolic of beauty, freedom and a certain individual style. Anyone who has seen them walking on the road wearing a typical dress, walking as if in keeping with some rhythm and talking freely among themselves, will agree with me. I too am very much aware of their plight. But whenever I think of them, I cannot ignore the evident brighter side of their life. I am astonished by their beauty, I wonder who might have taught them the snake walk on the road (like cat walk on stages), who might have created the dictionary of their particular language, who taught them to be so attractive. If I write about them, then how can I keep away their freedom from my nib, how can I ignore the bright smile on their lips, how can I forget that I am not allowed to walk in such a stylized manner along the road. Thus if I really talk about their life, it will be having both the shades – the bright side and the dull side, the positive and the negative.
If we want to cut away all emotive aspects from life and talk plainly about life regarding cruelty, sorrows and pains, then where will all those aspects go which are parts of life indirectly but help us to escape from all this sadness? Where will we keep those words which talk about the world of imagination, do we remove them from the dictionary? Sometimes the words themselves give the wrong picture. For example the word “mother” in Indian poetry has almost lost its reality. The poetic mother is sometimes very different from the real one. In the world of poetic imagination, we use the word mother as reverently as if we are referring to the Supreme Power. And thus we lose the real mother. There are a number of words which have similarly lost their original meaning in this poetic world.
Going towards artificiality and coming back from there is a continuous process. Artificiality has the capacity to attract fast and takes us away from reality. It is similar to the method of farming using chemicals which became popular in no time at all, as we could get a richer harvest and demon-sized vegetables. But when the demon starts troubling our stomach, we run back to natural products. Actually going towards culture is going away from nature; in this case each step towards progress can be kept in the category of artificiality. Progress of language can be considered similarly. We always like to take change in language as progress, we have a similar concept regarding literature too. In this case how long can we escape from change or a bit of artificiality? Literature talks about truth and beauty together, but how difficult it is to make truth beautiful, a writer knows very well.
Now we come back to reality, reality is never as harsh as it looks, nor is it artificially beautiful. Reality is reality which can be expressed with lots of care. Sometimes it is not difficult for the person who lives in it, but difficult for the person who looks at it from a distance. Reality itself is a little bit artificial in its own way. Thus reality might be more artificial in the literature of arts.
So does this mean that if without explicitly speaking about life, we loiter somewhere near to or far from the real topic of life, we are indeed speaking of life? And when we explicitly speak about life, we are straying far from life? Poetry can neither be too tied up with life, nor can it be too detached from life. It allows us to wander somewhere midway between the two.

By Rati Saxena

She who is becoming a jungle

2006-07-23T08:53:00.000+05:30

Whatever He said
She agreed to everything
He said, your eyes are lotus petals;
She said, so are they!
He said, your nose is like a parrot’s beak
She said, so it is!
And lips cherries, teeth pomegranate seeds
Breast, waist, and thighs
…………………….
She touched every piece of her body
Kept on saying with closed eyes
Yes…yes…yes

Now she is a little bit of vegetation, a little bit of a bird,
A little bit of an animal, and even a piece of sky
Branches blossom, flowers get dried up
And a seed drops from the womb
Becoming a tree, starts on a journey

This time she could not say Yes….yes
Every hair starts falling one by one
As a complete jungle, she starts thinking
Why didn’t any one say:
“Most beautiful is your womb”

Loan of moonlight

2006-07-23T08:52:00.001+05:30

If I count all the steps
I took with you
My feet will forget to walk
And the root will not remember the way

If I calculate all the moments
I spent with you
Breath of time will stop

You can’t realize
The warmth of love
Which grilled my heart

Every step of yours
All nearness
Every drop of love
Was taken as loan
From moonlight.

children after war

2006-07-23T08:52:00.000+05:30

the sounds become the toys
of the bombs breaking like crackers
bullets sticking on the doors
started dancing like glass balls
the flower blossoms on every wound
opening eyes in dripping blood
after the war
children peeled off death
like dead skin

deep inside
sitting near the wall of fear
sleeps humanity
amidst the stony crowdedness
cruelty grows like grass

passing through war
children
suddenly forget their childhood

A piece of backbone

2006-07-23T08:48:00.000+05:30

1

One fine morning
She suddenly realized
There was something in the world
Called a backbone
But, where?
In the body?
In the mind?
In the dustbin?
Or in the bow-shaped curved back of grandmother?
Father’s tired shoulders?
Mother’s irritating tongue?
Or eyes of the sister who peeps out of window?
She searched every corner of the house
But could not find the backbone
Later on--the story does not remain long--
Her eyes stuck in the place of sister’s eyes
Mother reached the place of grandmother
It always remained difficult to get the backbone
She searched on the roof
In the cheeka
And on the bed
One day
While adjusting the fire of the stove
She found a piece of backbone
Let it lie safe for someone
Who can get it , if not the whole
At least a piece

2

This was the old story
I heard in the songs of the bird
While she was playing with the dust in the courtyard
I started searching for that piece in the hole
searched in the brother’s school bag
In the stick of grandfather
In the mustaches of father
All my trying got fruitless at the end

Sometimes I felt its presence
In the eyebrows of mother
In the basket of the fisherwoman
In milkmaids pot
In the broom of the sweeper
At last I got a jar in the store
Kept behind kitchen vessels
The jar was filled with oil up to the neck
On the top there was fungus
Under the fungus
I got a piece of backbone
Which was kept by someone

3

Now I want to sow it in the big meadow,
Where it spreads like a banyan tree
With branches spread in every direction
Backbones should blossom as red flowers
Drop in every house and spread as seeds

Now I am searching
Not for the backbone
But for the meadow
Where I can sow it
Till it is kept in the flowerpot
In my drawing room as a bonsai.

(year -2000)

2006-07-23T08:47:00.000+05:30

Her eyes no longer search eagerly for the stretch of greenery. The birds of her breath come no more with the twigs of life to make their nest in her breast. All her emotions are deep rooted in her bosom; she is collecting the threads of her memories, her fingertips are rolling up the rosary of love songs, she is getting detached to the words and the world. She, who was with me in my times of distress, she, who was also the cause of pain for me from time to time, she, whose voice soothed me, is dripping like water from a broken mud pot.
I want keep my palm beneath her dripping life; I want to collect the pearls of her breath in my “anjali” (folded palms), I want to bring back her laughter. I ….I want to do something ….I do not know what I want to do?
My best friend is suffering in the closed room of the hospital. GREEN TARA
What shall I do? Shall I pray for her? Shall I write a poem for her? Can I write a poem for her at this moment? Can I squeeze my emotion in words? If I write a poem, will it save her life? If a poem cannot save a life, what is the use of writing a poem? If words do not work as “shabd shakti” (word power) why do I waste them? If a poem is not for giving life, why write it when there is no life? My words may be more liquid at this time. But they may dilute the actual feeling. Will diluted words be powerful? No …no one will agree to this.
Is this what is called, word power - the shabd shakti? Indian poetics has talked about its different aspects. A number of definitions are given in our Kavya Shastra- poetics. The Kavya Mimansa ( a book of poetics) says- if the feelings of poet cannot reach the common people- what is the use of his being a poet? In Harshcharit too, it is said, “What is the use of a language which cannot fit in the world?”
काव्येन किं कवेस्तस्य तन्मनोमात्रमवृत्तिना।
नीयन्ते भावकैर्यस्य न निबन्धा दिशो दश।।
(काव्य मीमांसा --चतुर्थ अध्याय)

कि कवेस्तस्य काव्येन सर्ववृत्तान्तगामिनी।कथेव भारती यस्य न व्याप्नोति जगत्त्रयम्।। (हर्ष चरित-1.10)

It means a poet has to do his/her KARMA -which is creation, according to the wish of the supreme creator. That is why Indian poetics call a poet – Kavi- which is drishta / who is a visionary. There is a saying which goes – a poet reaches almost every where, even those places where the sun cannot reach. So it is the poet’s duty to bring out every single emotion, to give words to every feeling. Poem and pain are twin words. There may be some eyes which are waiting for such words which can help them to share their pain. There may be a heart which is yearning to get a glimpse of those words which can tell his story. Moreover, poetry and pain are also identical words. How long can a poet run away from pain? He /she has to walk on fire…

when he plays drum

2006-06-19T16:18:00.000+05:30

when he takes up the drum
the sea water
starts steaming
and on his beloved brow
and the beads of perspiration

when he beats
on the drum
a big star breaks down
and the curtain of his beloved window flickers

this sweet soaked pain
spray out from the beating drum
the earth forgets the way

on the roof of his beloved
quietly came and sat a little bird
showering from the skies
her hair is spread
and trees bathe
in its sweet perfume

it does not matter for her

2006-06-19T16:15:00.000+05:30

it is almost a long time
since we parted
but she still comes whenever she wants
spreading the sheet of sleep
lies down on the back
scattering hair in dreams

mostly in her dreams
there is a plant
white ants on its root
crawl on my body

whenever
I come out of her dream
the roots of my body
disappear

I am afraid
of her, of her dreams
and my sleep
which wakes up
in her dreams

It does matter for her
she comes
scattering her hair in dreams

Hugging

2006-03-03T07:55:00.000+05:30

Only man knows
how to hug
without touching beaks
without hurting claws
like animals
like bird

but only man
becomes careful
while hugging even
as every time he feared
knife on the back

Watermelon/with me

2006-03-03T07:54:00.000+05:30

this time again it happens
they cut me with knife
like water melon
cut in two, than again two
I am bleeding with juice

I thought
no problem
wind is there,
with sun with me
moon is there,
with banyan with me
whole sky is with me
with a feather of bird

my juice is dried up
of body
than heart

on the earth
I started decaying
earth worm was also there
where I fall
“ every one has to make his place
by cutting the hardness without teeth”

I did not thank the earthworm
as I knew
he IS with me.

Will You Talk To Me?

2006-03-03T07:51:00.000+05:30

will you talk to me
as before
removing the stone from the grave
wearing the flesh as you wear bangles?
Will you talk to me?
as before, He asked

“ how”
I replied
“ you talk about flesh
my bones changed in to powder
tongue fell down
like leaf in the noontime
the sound has flown away in the sky

“ talk
every thing will come again
flesh, bones and tongue
and sound too”

I made my tongue
with roots of tree
teeth with leaves
caught the eco from valley
the sea wave changed in to body
look
I am ready
to talk

hey, where are you now?

Eight Bars and One Window

2006-03-03T07:48:00.000+05:30

*
One window and eight bars
cut into eight parts
a coconut tree, and peeping from behind it,
a leafy jackfruit tree.

Some bird calls.
Some kid bawls.
Some plane crosses.
One day’s done.

**
Between Khajuraho’s statues and Bastar’s figurines,
a vase of pens.
On this window-sill, see the whole country.
Wait,
Don’t forget, even the puppets of Gujarat
hang from these bars!

***

If this was not a window
Would it be a picture?
Then the leaves wouldn’t move
The birds wouldn’t sing
And I would be not on the inside
But on the outside.

****
I’m behind the window.
The window’s in front of me.
Is that the same thing?

*****

A house in front of the window
A crane on the porch
Wings open, neck stretched
Wants to fly in the sky
But
Claws stuck in wet cement:

I felt restless

******
Beyond the window, a house
Beyond the house, yet another house
Beyond again, perhaps a valley
with wind like a bouncing ball
that leaps up and lands in here,
through the window

The window, and I
started to laugh.

*******

As soon as the window opens
my held breath stirs.

********

The taste of last night’s dream
persists on the tongue.
I want to narrate my dream to the window
But as soon as I open my mouth,
my dream slips out
and hangs on a branch like a ghoul.

My very own dream, now outside the window.
While I’m inside.

*********
People are being banished
from their homes.
People abandon
their homes.

It is not the fault of the window.

To move out
You need a door.

**********

Leaves, trunk, tree...
lost in the darkness.
The window’s awake,
Hopes to be the first to see
the morning light.

************

She draws a picture
of a masked
armed man.

Then she tears up the picture.
This is how she takes revenge
for the murder of her friend.

Her anger has gone
out of the window.

************

He doesn’t want to rule
a kingdom.
He wants to rule galaxies.

He doesn’t like bars.
He doesn’t mind windows.

*************

A loud flap of wings.
I looked out of the window and
saw some fallen wings.

I looked in.
Where did my wings go?

**************

Father loved this saying:
“When an ant die, it grows wings”
He said this whenever our dreams
seemed ready to take-off.

***************

Today, as soon as I open the window,
Many sayings rush in.
I take a good look and then
toss them in the bin.

I never knew when
they had come in,
crossing boundaries.

Two sets of eyes are
staring at me

Wild friendship

2005-10-06T12:38:00.000+05:30

Wild friendship

A beautiful dream blossoms
in the black wild forest
a sweet sleep smiles
on that dream
the smell of sleep is
as wild as jungle

I could not become friend
to this jungle till now

it does not matter for her

2005-10-06T12:34:00.000+05:30

it is almost a long time
since I met her
but she comes whenever she wants
spread the sheet of sleep
lie down on the back
scattering the hair like dreams

mostly in her dreams
there is a plant
white ants on its root
crawl on my body

whenever
I come out of her dream
the roots of my body
disappear

I am afraid
of her, from her dream
and my sleep
which keeps waking up
in her dreams

Mountain Nights

2005-09-12T14:53:00.000+05:30

1

Last night
there was a dream
And
In the dream -You

You
You
And

Only you
Where was I?

2

Before your arrival
A few names were known to me
Mountain, river, stream and dewpond

You made me a friend
To
Snow thunder encampment in the mountain
Typhoons in rivers
Tiny waves in the pond
And to the song of
The dancing stream
And my self

but

I wanted to be a friend of yours!.

3++++
Last night
The earth worms forgot their way
And came into the holes of snakes
When snakes could not find their place
They went to the sea to make billows
No, no
nothing happened to fishes
they remained in the sea
lost in themselves
forgot completely to swim.

nobody called to the bubbling earth
neither the sky or nor the earth

yesterday
the earth was on the tree
the whole night

5
last night
the sky was so close
that I could cover myself
and pass the night

the mountain was sitting near to me
with a burning cigar on his lips

the sea was at my feet
gently caressing my feet

but I was not there,
roaming in the jungle, caves
with wild animals
to reduce my itch
by their sharp teeth

6

they say that
their nights are like mountains
but mine was like
sluggish water
even though
I was sleeping
and waking with it
the whole night

I am in Udaipur

2005-08-19T11:29:00.000+05:30

I am in Udaipur

that tree,
which stands near the temple
where there are a number of gods and goddesses
and bells and drums
a cow standing near by
waiting for prasada
flapping her tail to drive the flies off
the lake is in front of them:

the lake which was there before my birth
the lake which will remain after my death
the lake which is frozen in my heart
the lake which is melting in me drop by drop

cows rubbed their back on the trunk of that tree
the trunk became thin by friction and
fell in to the lake
from that time I have been swimming in dreams
some children started playing by throwing and picking stones
today I have been thrown by my dear ones
whenever I try to come near them
I am that lake and lake is in me
this relation is only for one life
I am in Udaipur

2

perhaps I was a fruit of this tree
that fell in the lake
a parrot had taken a low flight
and picked me
chewed me with eagerness
still I remember the harshness of his beak
and the softness of his tongue

perhaps I was the anklet bell
of a dancer in the palace
or a tear dropped from those black eyes
peeping out from a long veil
even now a bell rings in me
my tongue always has the taste of tears
somebody within me is always eager
to come out of the veil
3

near this lake
the fourth daughter, born
in a middleclass family
there were no songs and
no drumbeats
a deep silence spread
a thunder started from the lake
reached out to the sea

the fourth daughter does not have a heart
nobody belongs to her
the fourth daughter is the lake of Udaipur
she is the anklet of a dancer
she laughs without reason

today the fourth daughter is standing near the lake
tossing her births and rebirths

4
am I not competent to
offer homage to my ancestors
is it not my right to
offer a fistful of water to my parents?
as if am I not a daughter
but a sour berry from a thorny shrub
as if I fell from the stem
and fell into thorns
as if I am sour memories
as if I am not a daughter
but only a salty backwater lake

For one who is no more, for one who painted on my wall

2005-07-02T20:25:00.000+05:30

A pewit is titt---titt telling the clouds---listen- the painter is no more, she is peeping into the burrow under the tree roots and telling the snake --- “Look.. Do you know.. The Painter has gone for ever.” Now she sat on the branch and started talking to herself—“See, he has gone, without telling me, but how come I did not know his going away?”

“What are you talking about? Painter? How come?” Agnishekhar is very sad in Jammu.
“Oh madam, it is very sad news” technical team of Kritya is downhearted.
“Good people go before their time, but before leaving they give so much love that you cannot forget them.” Roger Humes is online from California.

The clouds dropped a few tears, the snake lowered its hood; the branch of the tree broke a little. The pewit is now quite... thch..... thch.....

Who is the painter, what is his relation to so many people? Why is his departure so touching for these people?

He was a painter; no doubt, do not know how many painters there are in this world. Why are the people so sad? Pewit is not able to speak... thich ..thich...

He was a painter, no doubt. He was painting silently, without any expectation. .. Used to send paintings after every third or fourth month. His paintings helped the poet to understand her own poetry. His duty seemed to end the minute he sent the paintings; he never talked about them again and never demanded any thing,... his paintings were accompanied by small letters... this line of your poem reminds me of that line of Pablo Neruda... or a bird came and sat on my table, when I was painting.... or it is 2 am and a cow is standing at my door etc. I never understood what relation he had with Pablo, bird and cow..... And the poet for whom he is painting... Who knows and who wants to know. How come a village man talks about Pablo Neruda, sometimes a question arises in my mind.

His paintings always started with a circle and melted in eternity... maybe like him... who was living in a small town but reached from Jammu to California through his paintings.

A number of painters are there in this world, who can make their life as colourful as their own canvas, but this painter had very dull shades... the colour of dirt or dusk... there was no greenery in his paintings... a few people might have known him but whoever saw his painting ended up being sad for at least one day.

His paintings never became the part of any big exhibitions ... his paintings never got a place in big palaces... but only hung on someone’s wall ... or was kept packed in a big cover... without any complaint. But when he is gone, every one is sad... from Kashmir to California.

A dusty evening in Dhamatari, a difficult kavi sammelan just after rain and thunder... a man came to meet me after poetry reading. I like your poems, I always read them, and I am a painter... Your poems talk to me, I want to paint them... I never took the effort of considering those words seriously ... I never thought of looking at him carefully...actually I did not see the sincerity in those words.

But the painter sent paintings. A parcel reached home with 4 paintings after 2-3 months. My home became colourful. My daughter emptied the wall to make room for the paintings ... My husband framed the paintings and thus we all became friends of the painter. I wrote to him-“Everyone at my home like your paintings ... We have given them a place on our wall.” The painter was so happy that he sent 2 more paintings. Now sending paintings became his habit, he also started quoting my poems on them. When it was raining he sent only letters, as it was difficult for paintings to get dry during the rainy season. Slowly we started forgetting to send letters to each other. But any one who visited our home was shown those paintings. Every one of our guests became quite attached to the painter unknowingly.

Did we think of the painter? No, we always spent our thoughts on the paintings. We all knew that the name of the painter was Prabhakar, he lived in Dhamatari... And he painted... that was all. We did not know how he earned his livelihood, how many members there were in his family etc. The last one and half year passed without any communication... neither did he send me letters or paintings nor did I write to him... meanwhile the idea of Kritya came to my mind... I thought of Prabhakar... and his paintings. I wanted to write to him—now you are an international painter, friend. I send him a letter telling him about Kritya and forgot all about it as there was no time to think about all these.

Prabhakar did not reply, a doubt entered my mind... I asked him again.. What happened friend.... are you angry... Prabhakar was really angry. He was complaining....see I made your walls colorful but you could not hang even black lines on my walls.
Kritya is online, Prabhakar is still quiet.. friends are praising his paintings... and a postcard is there in my post box with broken words. Didi.. Prabhakar sir is no more.. he has left us...

The Pewit started talking tithchh..titchhh.. she went to a frog... went to the puddle.. went to the pond..... and went to the sea... and drowned in the sea...titch ..titch....titchhhhh.

These lines are written on the sea..

1

These letters are not
as well made as
his paintings.

But this picture of him
as seen in these letters
is not less beautiful
than his paintings.

2
He has written:
I am writing a letter to you
at 2 a.m, and
a cow is standing
at my door

I could not understand
why a cow should come to his door
at 2 a.m , when
he was writing a letter to me

I want to meet the cow
who has seen him writing a letter
in my name

I want to kiss those eyes
which have a picture of those fingers
which were writing a letter to me
words resisting those fingers

And for the love hidden in those words?

3
Every morning a bird
comes and sits on my table
looks carefully at the paintings I make
then takes one of them in her beak
flies away in the sky
then my painting gets the blue colour;
when she sits on the branch of a lush green tree
my painting gains the green colour:
the painter had written to me once

But your paintings have
brown, black and grey colour, O painter friend
I asked him back

how long can a bird keep flying in the sky
she has to come back to the earth to get her feed

And the colour of hunger is
always black, brown or grey:
the painter told me

4
The tree
in front of my window is very quiet
today
very quiet are the birds

very sad are the paintings
hanging on my wall
the red hot spheres also
have grown very calm

he wrote to me
I like rain very much
I will come to you
to get wet

In this rainy season
the painter came quietly
and
hung on my wall
as his own painting

Rati Saxena

Would he like it?

2005-06-23T17:13:00.000+05:30

Would he like
the smell of flowers,
he who repairs the gutters,
digging up the waste
in the stinking bubbles
and clouds of dirt?

Would it like
the taste of sweets,
the half-clothed childhood
that collects the negligence
from the heap of insults
with plastic covers?

Would she like
the beauties of nature,
she the mother of a baby
that keeps crying for
a piece of hunger?

The hymn of slippers

2005-06-04T19:24:00.000+05:30

The taste is very bitter, from tongue to throat,
up to the intestine, bitterness everywhere
everything is bitter,
the toothpaste in the tube, the broken brush
everything.
till nightfall everything was fine,
a good sleep and endless dreams . . .
most of the dreams disappeared with night,
but this came with me till morning
stuck to my eyelids till the eyes opened.

There were a number of slippers and I was searching for mine
A number of beautiful slippers but mine are missing
There my flight is ready, here I have lost my slipper
Why should I give up my journey because of slippers? I told myself
But a journey without slippers, that too by air, is out of the question
How many steps can I climb?
These slippers are my feet, my legs and my knees
And my legs? Oh, they are only walking sticks
which cannot walk without slippers.

Slippers are my identity, they are my personality
They are my height, on which I can stand and touch the sky
They are my present and future
They are the beauty of my dress
If a jewel is missing, no one will notice
If the heel of a slipper is broken, the whole world will see

My journey is about to start and I am in search of slippers
My flight is ready; I am in search of slippers
My future is weeping but I am in search of slippers
Slippers are my Mantra, slippers are my Dharma
Are they missing, or am I?

O Indra, VaruN, Agni Dev!
All directions!
Earth and Sky!
I am searching for the slippers
Loosing my self

when he plays drum

2005-05-06T17:36:00.000+05:30

when he takes the drum
the sea water
started steaming

when he beats
on the drum
a big star falls down

when drum
gets tune
the earth forgets the way

it seldom happens
when his beloved
spread her hair
in the sun light

the fingers of time

2005-04-17T10:08:00.000+05:30

one point finger stood
they cut it right away
river flow from finger
a boat swims on the river
and boat helped to cross the
river of blood

second point finger stood
they cut it straight away
peaces scattered
mountains grown up
now there is a smiling sunflower

third ,fourth , fifth point fingers
keep on standing
and keep on cutting like crops
earth did not stop
keep on moving
from west to east
the sun keep on setting
from west to east

the fingers have catch the time
in the form of needle of clock

Between one and twelve

2005-04-04T13:17:00.000+05:30

For years and years
a clock was fixed
exactly in my chest
which caught the time
between one and twelve
crawling with one leg
running with the other

I was running with needles
stying with life
praying that
the needles should break
and time should spread on my palm
like pink Gulal

after so many years
the clock stopped suddenly
collecting the heart beats
stood quietly making faces
the spider net of time had
rolled up and swallowed me

I shouted back:
where is the rope of the hands
and where is my clock?

Time laughed at me
moved forward, leaving me behind.

The absence of colours, in the world of colours.

2005-03-25T10:00:00.000+05:30

Long, long ago
Before the birth of the rainbow
In the city of colours
There was only one colour
Neither blue, nor yellow
Not even red or brown
Only one colour
Roaring like death
Deep like silence
Tent of fire
Tightened from here to there
Coloursless colour

Eggs screeched into life
Life gave birth to children
Colours entered into the earth by crawling
Changing rocks into the earth
Some flew fluttering
Becoming the umbrella of the sky
Colours strengthened the backbone
Leaves sprouted on the backbone
Shadows took rest under trees
Dowsing with colours

Drops of light dripped down
Blossomed into flowers
Faces of colours started shining
Becoming colourful

The city of colours arose
Playing holi with colours
Forgetting the journey of crawling colours

Friends! In the story of colours
Those colours are not there
Which are really colours.

The Aesthetics of the Spider

2005-03-20T00:26:00.006+05:30

Every net of a spider
Is a complete poem.
Every word comes with the saliva,
Keeps as much distance
As is necessary
To catch the moth of expression.
It has the tightness
That gives rhythm to the metre.
If the net is on a tree,
The dew will shine in the morning sunlight,
Like a simile of Kalidasa.
The net hanging in the corners of rooms,
Not beautiful like the post-modern,
Swallow the moths of Reality.

The spider’s yardstick for beauty is different.
Flashy, black moths
Lend charm to her taste.
But the wings of a butterfly
Taste bad and make her throw up.

The aesthetics of a spider
Are a challenge to man’s sense of beauty.

Composition

2005-03-20T00:26:00.005+05:30

She composes the moon
On the black stone platter
By giving shape to dreams
Blown up and dancing on the fire.
The three-fourths of life
Come down as a baked bread
On the platter of hunger
Every time coming from the pan
She wonders whether she is
Hunger or moon.
Every time the hunger
Swallows her thoughts.

Washing clothes

2005-03-20T00:26:00.003+05:30

They rub off every speck of dirt
From the collars of shirts, pockets and folds
Removing meaninglessness from every word

They rinse the clothes
One by one in the bucketful of water
Dipping every meaning in the word
They beat and rub and wash
In the flowing waters of meaning
Shake the clothes, smoothes the folds,
And put them on the line
Decorating the word with the shell of meaning
Every dried cloth on the line is her poem
Washing clothes is not advertisement for soaps.

Washing clothes

2005-03-20T00:26:00.002+05:30

Girls do not lie on the rails without cause

2005-03-20T00:26:00.001+05:30

cups of tea
steaming in the dew
words infiltrating into the paper
and people coming out of their quilts
have seen on the TV screen
that she is lying on the rails
hands and feet separated from the brain
sticking the sindoor on the heavy wheels
she is lying: who is that?

the leaves of mango asked:
from where does she come?
no house fly flutters its wings
biting a comer of her eye
the crow said:
this is a girl.

the girl who became a metre in the verse
journeyed on the scooter
walked on the grass
spread like a wave on the sand

parents were unhappy
because of the loss of a thousand bucks
every month
sisters were floating in joy
the stone in the way has been removed

there were teachers, students, friends
they were searching, unknowing, knowing
in books, in talks, in memories, in thoughts
everyone asking
why is she spread on the rails?

she was eating, she was earning
she was going ?
it's true
the sisters have made their ways separate
it's true
the relatives were shooting arrows
and her own people were looking at her money
but what was the cause
why she was spread on the rails?

nobody knows that she was spread like a ?
boredom entered the galleries of laughter
the drum of quietness was hurting the ears
so she couldn't hear the train' s whistle

girls do not lie on the rails just like that.

Girls from Good Families

2005-03-20T00:26:00.000+05:30

Girls from good families
do not fly kites.

Kites have colours
colours have desires
and desires do sting

Kites are made of paper
paper gets torn
then the body becomes impure

Kites have strings
strings go loose
they lose their way

There is flight in the kites
they fight with the clouds
their nerves break down

That is why girls from good families
never fly kites.

They are goats, not girls

2005-03-20T00:01:00.000+05:30

They are three goats,
black. tawny and mud-brown,
their udders heaving with milk
that gushes out at the merest touch.
the hunger of Ramua and Lalua appeased
to graze here and there and have there fill.
No need to hide their shame ,
they are goats, not girls.
If it’s a girl, this house will her fodder
and that house will milk her dry
She’ll cut and bring the grass
and yet be content with the bread
She’ll light the stove and scorch her hunger
but it’s only good bargain
to sell them and buy these

A girl is after all a girl
not a goat

A Soul in the Well

2005-03-16T20:00:00.000+05:30

A square courtyard, surrounded by four high walls. is it a courtyard or a deep well?… a well where live six souls.. together but never together. Smallest one.. almost two and a half years old is looking at the sky.. the square sky.. the sky which could peep into the courtyard. She is balancing on her left toe, trying to twirl like a spinning button. Falling down again and again. There is so much noise in the house. Some are frying pooris in the kitchen and some are collecting clothes. What is happening? The little girl is disturbed nobody has time to explain the things. She is feeling too lonely, whereever she goes, she gets scolding-O my. My…get out from here, what are you doing here.. why don’t you go and play. Hey—don’t touch that..
Oh such a tender age and so much scolding! Leave it she decided—let me look at the sky…the square sky peeping through courtyard….shining sky..sometimes blue, .some times yellow.
“Maa, who is going to get married in MAMA’s house.” One of the sisters asked. loudly. Oh we are going to MAMA’s house.
Now the little girl got a new game—how is MAMA’s house.. is it big? A big court yard., tiled roof, a number of rooms.. do not know whether she was imagining things or she was recalling memories. Anyhow she got some mental exercise for some time.
“ Maa, we are going by train, no?” one of the sisters asked again.

Now the girl is playing train—train,,chuk---chuk—kkoooo…kkooo. she is engine and she herself is the bogy… kkooo—koooo. “my, my, how is this girl made!” One of the sisters got annoyed.

Now it is evening, Father is back from office. Hat on the head, came on bicycle. He was quiet. Coming of father at home was a different experience. As if the house stopped breathing, as if air became heavy. Mother gave him tea and asked in a low voice- “When shall we go to the station?”
“For what?” Father asked bluntly.
“Don’t we go to Bhopal?” mother was annoyed.
“ O I forgot to bring tickets, we will go tomorrow, Now serve me food” Father replied in a firm voice.
There was no question of asking any question. Tiffin boxes were opened, every one was upset. Father ate quietly. Perhaps mother did not eat. How could any one enjoy the pooris, which were made for eating in the train.

Night falls; sisters are arranging charpais in the courtyard. At the right side father’s charpai (bed), then three more… at last mother’s charpai. All of them were covered with white sheet. White pillows, and a silken sheet arranged at the other end neatly. Father was very particular about neatness. Such a beautiful experience ..look at the stars and when you get tired, go to the world of stars..

Anyhow, at last we could reach MAMA’s house.. All of us were almost hanging in TANAGA. (horse puller). Father is sitting at the front and we are all at the back. covered with parda.
As soon as we reached near the big gate, so many people came out rushing—Chandrani bai has come… Arey, look Chandranibai of Jaipur has come. We are surrounded by mama’s mamai’s , mousis and number of children. Oh, mother has changed a lot.. how beautiful she looks.. she is hugging every one.. Father is also looking very cheerful. And so many children!
Mother was the dearest sister of all the three brothers, she was beautiful, educated and loving. All the brothers liked their sister very much. O my God , this is mother or a small girl. At home she barley laughs, but now she is laughing, chatting and freely wandering about in the whole house.
A number of children are seen, children of all ages, all are cousins, girls are playing separately, boys have different groups. Nobody needed toys those days. Boys could play a number of games with the help of some stones and a ball. Cricket was not a popular game those days. The most popular game was “Sitoliya”: seven round stones were collected. Stones of seven sizes. From the biggest to the smallest. One party arrange them on each other and run away. The other party try to trough the ball on the heap and try to catch the boy of the opposite side. Boys of opposite sides try to arrange the stones and sometimes do not come in catch. This was a very fast game. Some girls also like to play this game. Girls have a number of other games. They need five pebbles and start tossing on their palms and back of the palm. That was called “chapete”. Or draw eight square and jump on them with one leg, tossing a stone- called Ikky-Dukky. Sometimes they cook in imagination, they stitch the clothes for dolls or knit a sweater. Those dayswe never wanted any artificial toy. Any stone, any lid of bottle, any useless thing could change into a toy. This was the time of marriage, all the children were enjoying. Every one was laughing, enjoying. “ Hey God, why not this laughter comes to my home?”.
While playing hide and seek the little girl came into a dark room. What a smell?, A number of big jars are kept neatly covered with cloth. The girl opens one, oooh. what is this… mango?… the mouth is full of water. She took one piece and kept it in the mouth. Somebody opened the door. Who is hiding there? – O little girl you are here!, hey what are you doing.. do you like pickles? .. wait I shell give .. take.. this lime.. and this is..
The girl was astonished, she was expecting scolding or beating. Who is this lady who talks so sweetly.. This is bari MAMI, So nice.
“ why don’t you stay with me, I will give you lots of pickles. “ she was telling her..

Days of laughter passed so quickly, we are again in the same well. O god send us a RajKumar, who can save us.. like the prince of the stories… well and prince.. prince and well….

Rati Saxena

The Girl cursing the Sun

2005-03-15T18:51:00.000+05:30

On those pitch dark steps,
whose one end climbs to the sun-drenched terrace
and the other takes a turn
to descend into the mud-brown courtyard
sits a girl
with her head on the knees
cursing the sun.
Her brother bounds on the terrace,
her younger sister hops in the courtyard all alone.
She is neither upstairs, nor down
Trapped in the dark steps betwixt
she feels those don'ts
which suddenly rise, spreading their hoods.
A span of some hours
has placed her in the criminal’s witness-box, for a sin she knows not.
Ignoring her belly pain, her mother reviles at her:
"You have grown up. Take care, play no more with children."
The dagger in the stomach suddenly pierces her heart.
The tide rising in the thighs
rnoist Pain , piercing needles
and rnost important of all
the sudden .wrenching away of childhood.
Sitting in the darkness
she curses all those gods and goddesses too;
going near then is forbidden
She does not the tremors of the taboos will begin now
she does not know the pains of her woman-body will flare up now
she does not know she has become usable
she does not even know she has blossomed.
She merely continues to curse the sun

The Girl cursing the Sun

2005-03-15T18:32:00.001+05:30

The sea

2005-03-15T18:32:00.000+05:30

1

The sea is very different
From the sky
Different too are
The clouds from each other
But when, as she stands on the shore,
He holds her in his wavy arms
makes wet the hair scattered on her face
fondles her thighs,
puts his head on her feet
And turns back,
Then, where is the difference
Between him
And an unsatisfied lover ?

2
every evening
taking the samidha of clouds
in the homakund of the sun
putting the ahuti of waves
the sea creates an abhichar,
every evening
black comes from the abhichar
gives the news of a conspiracy,
and from this conspiracy
this world has grown

3

as the evening withers away
a star sprouts
direct on the sea
with his finger on his lips
he bids me, you and them be quiet
be careful,
you are not the only one alone,
we all are alone
in our own sea

4
I saw
him and the sea
that evening
he was lolling in the sea
and the sea was overflowing in him

he saw
me and the sea
together
the sun was sinking in the sea
and I was sinking with him

we saw each other
and started sinking in each other

5

in the black quietness of the night
the earth grows
a ray of light

what is unusual in it
the sky always hangs
lamps of light
every night
look at the sea
why does he remain behind
he is bringing the line of light
which burns the oven
across the sea

6
somebody says
it is an open sky
as open
as an open fist

somebody says
it is a deep sea
as deep
as the heart of man

when I saw
it was an empty canvas
where there was not
a single line of scratch

7

It is the sea of smell
of bodies of floatinglight
the smell makes the nostrils flutter
like fish
swimming in water .

that smell
enters into every pore
like pieces of shells.
and the body changes
into a sea of smell

8

keeping close to his chest
innumerable colours
like floating lights
and laughing rocks
how lonely is the sea
who knows?

Even the sea does not know
but when his reverberations
the waves putting their heads on the shore
and the bursting bubbles
whisper into the ears
how lonely is the sea
who knows?

9

the sea is getting wet
in the rain
laughing
like a desert child

the sea is getting wet
with his own tears
smiling
like a young woman
sitting on an island

the sea is getting wet
with the shower of love
sobbing in pain
getting separated
from his loved one

the sea is getting wet
in the first rain
after summer

10

the smell of the sea
is different from
the soil wet in the rain
it has no relation
to the smell of a flower
it does not know
the sharp taste of passion

the smell of the sea
does not enter into the nostrils
but enters into every pore
and touches gently
and hypnotises

the smell of the sea
tells the oral story
of the sweat of fishermen
the play of sea animals
and the legends of ships

Mother used to say

2005-03-14T08:54:00.000+05:30

1
The wound of mother’s body
Gets the itch whenever it wants.

Under every wound there is pus,
Under the pus there is a tale.

When we see her scratching,
Our anger comes flooding.

If we were in your place,
We wouldn’t have scratched so much.

Her lips smiled with satire:
“Maybe you scratch more than I.”

Today my mother’s scratch
Passes through me to my daughter

2

“Man is only man,
Whether husband, father or son,”
Mother used to say.

Man can sometimes be lover:
My imagination takes flight;
But every lover is a man
Mother retorts back.

3

“Woman is not only woman,”
Mother used to say.
“Whether woman is also man,”
My curiosity rises.
“Woman is woman—but she is
The mother of a son,
Then she is the sister of a brother,
Then she is the wife of a husband;
When is she woman?”
I am astonished.

“Only when she is somebody’s lover,”
Mother used to say.

The Sea that Dreams

2005-03-13T21:22:00.000+05:30

In the dream of the sea
there are no fishes,
no shells, no watery animals,
neither ships nor lifebuoys.
he waking and sleeping of the waves are not there.
No rivers, not even their happiness.

The sea dreams of the land,
on which climb the mountains,
the trees and the birds--
all that the rivers have left behind.

In her dream there is no water.