secret languages

What could these small, black
marks, so strangely drawn,
mean to anyone?
Could they be the silent
swirls of snowflakes
trying to reach the earth,
still naked from winter?
Are they the smell of incense at the old,
old temple that was hid within
folds of crumbling rocks by
the gods themselves?

An old man sat outside,
begging for alms.
His were eyes that could not
see mine as I peered at him
with mine; yet adolescent eyes.
Could he have seen the silent
swirls, the snowflakes falling
gently to the ground?
Would he wish to see the
white snow, almost as white as his hair?

Maybe that is why I come searching for you,
maybe you will want to see the snowflakes,
maybe you will say you see the snowflakes
when you see these small, black
marks, so strangely drawn
on this white sheet, almost
as white as the old man’s hair.
Do you want to see the old man
who sat outside the temple,
begging for alms,
his hand
holding a steel bowl,
empty but for a few coins,
a few rupees,
his chest bare, a thread running from shoulder
to waist, the ribs easily counted,
his legs protected by a thin
dhoti, his beard long and silver,
eyes framed by furrowed lines,
the gifts of years?

But would you
be able to see the cracks in the skin
around his fingers, clutching the bowl
for dear life?
I would show you him
but I cannot draw
very well.
These odd turns of black
create sounds in my head
and make me think
but they are not
silent swirls of snowflakes
trying to reach the earth,
still naked from winter.

Maybe I could talk of other
things –
leave the images for
painters and
cameras.
Maybe I could tell you about myself,
maybe I could describe my childhood,
the games I played,
the thoughts I thought,
the tantrums I threw and the toys
I liked.
Maybe I could tell you about
my mother,
father,
or those afternoons I spent
dreaming of imagined lands.

But I know you would not see
the places I saw as I flew over the world sitting
in my favourite armchair
for these odd turns of black ink
are not the spires
that rose from deserts full
of deadly scorpions and scarabs.

walking

They are still

wet from an alien

downpour –

these slippers,

chappals, sandals –

the simple sound

of the falling rain

beating upon this muddle

of languages.

They are far from home –

these slippers,

chappals, sandals –

away from the noisy streets

of home, the heat,

the dust, the green

tree-tops back home.

in solitude

When I am alone
I don’t mind
I have my words
And those of others

I don’t mind
I have thoughts of myself
And those of others
Racing through my tired mind

I have thoughts of myself
As an older man
Racing through my tired mind
The memories of childhood

As an older man
I will be wiser
The memories of childhood
They will become easier to remember

I will be wiser
I have my words
They will become easier to remember
When I am alone

persistent memories

The flicker of the light
Bulb that hangs over her head
Picks out the small
Lines shrouding her face

The bulb that hangs over her head
It dangles so precariously
Lines shrouding her face
Wake you to the beauty of her voice

It dangles so precariously
Like the last thread of a dream
Waking you to the beauty of her voice
As you heard it that morning

Like the last thread of a dream
The one that you never remember
As you heard it that morning
That morning was so long ago

The ones that you never remember
Take the shape of dreams
That morning was so long ago
You will not remember anymore

Take the shape of dreams
And run your fingers through her hair
You will not remember anymore
When you have not seen her for a year

And run your fingers through her hair
For when you are sitting in a dingy bar
When you have not seen her for a year
Strange women will remind you of her

For sitting in a dingy bar
Blinded by smoke and scotch
Strange women will remind you of her
And you will not know why

Blinded by smoke and scotch
You will pick out small
Strange women who remind you of her
Under the flickering light

banned stories

I saw a black spot flash
Across a dark road
The quiet of the night
Disturbed by a scream

Across the dark road
I could see people
Disturbed by a scream
Whispered into their minds

I could see people
They held the secrets
Whispered into their minds
By the trees along the river bank

They held the secrets
Without the fear of being caught
By the trees along the river bank
I could hear the stories

Without the fear of being caught
In the quiet of the night
I could hear stories
I saw a black spot flash