You leave in the winter and return
In the spring – a week later, but the
Burn of ice has given way to the wing
Of blue that blazes the day – and a bowl
Of white tulips is on the table. They
Wave in all directions, as if to say, ‘whole
Snowstorms have passed into these blooms.
The seasons don’t really change. In a way,
Spring is a price Winter is willing to pay,
To finally gain entrance into your rooms.’
The room they stayed in, of burnished gold,
Sleeps in monarchical hues, like queens of old.
We cannot enter, desecrate
This looking glass that lets fall its duties of state
Stands traitor – a window, a mirror, in its way,
A fallen guard, exposing newly-weds where they lay.
Did they look out, from their private paradise
Imagine, in centuries to come, world-weary eyes
That rest in colours of consummation
Like holes in towers in a walled in nation.
Alas, poor Ezra, institutionalised
Whose images left him undisguised
What poetry can save the wearied gaze?
What rest for the walker of forbidden ways?
You can see him strain forward, bend
To the weight of caring. There
Are no spokes in the wheel – could she
Fend for herself, could she dare
To tell him that between him and her
There is only rushing air?
There is a lion at the gates. Fierce of eye and
Sharp of tooth though he be, he is burnished
To glory by hands on his shoulders, his mane, his
Knee. A hundred outstretched hands, a thousand
Palms a day, on lion-hair spikes and hammered
Nails, once meant to impale all desire for entry
Through the doors to these forbidden
Cities of hope, gleam with the yearnings
Of millions of fingers. A kind of earning
Of lustre lost in the service of kings. Things
Of iron can endure, it seems, till the hidden
Glories of tempered gold burnish each touch
Each pilgrim’s and seeker’s hand saying ‘thus much
Do I render unto Ceaser that which
Can never be his: an empire of stubborn dreams
The sum total of which is this, this forbidding nail
Rubbed gently aglow. Who is savior? Who redeems?’
Look upon these hands, commoner and king
Holier than the celestial harmonies of the house of Ming.
Sunday brought a silver-dark bowl
Lustrous with the shadowing
Of the hundreds of Sundays that
Bore it, cities and homes and hands
That held it. Strings of beads, bright
Stones, little guest towelettes –
Every room and table it graced has
Traced its story in muted light
The shine of dark silver undulled.
This Sunday I took out the plant it harboured
And gently rubbed the years away.
The scrub held my greyish rue, even
The towel clutched stains of regret
I repotted the plant and put in dried roses
Instead. This is perhaps the work of Sundays
Transmuting shadows into roses
The silver ready for the ink of future memories
Holding the old ones in red.
Last night I dreamt my body was in revolt again
That I had never learnt to be afraid of spiders
And they were attacking me again. That the fear
Of hissing noises and hanging from cliffs
Had never rewired my brain and now I was
Falling, reaching for slithering vines with
Venom in their teeth. And I think how billions
Of deaths have not taught us what to do
With grief. So many, I had not thought death
Had not taught us so many truths and ways to
Go on living. No phobias, no thicker skins,
No recoil from the hiss and bite of grief. How has
Evolution passed us by, I think. Maybe, as usual,
I have the wrong end of this writhing mess. Maybe
It is grief that keeps us human in the face
Of so much ugliness.
I saw lightning fly from
Cloud to cloud etching arrows
In the sky. I saw the edge
Of dawn sketching thunder
Silent and black. I saw the moon
Stand guard high above; an act
Of faith. In truth, our descent
Traced its arc, a crescent of
Returning. Let lightning
Follow my flight, I think, let
Each arrow be a burning. Let
The glow of day be born in pain
Each shade a stroke of learning.
Let courage be an act of faith
And rain, the thunder’s yearning.
Is sometimes the rushing
Of a green river, carving
Stone pillars in the crumbling canyons
Of my Heart. Driven apart.
The riven highlands offer the years
A pebble at a time. A rock here
And there standing when
All about broke into dust eons
Ago. Today is a bridge under
Which the rushing waters sound
The deep, a thing to stand on
When all else seems tumbling
Past. To not have to leap. This
Bridge will not be
The last.
April showers us with
Many things but mostly
Songs sung to each other’s
Muses. You could say, April has
Its uses, but mainly, the May
Flowers it brings are the gold
For which we sing.
I wish to apply
For mercy – I have committed
So many sins that come under
Crimes permitted, a column
That is not included in your
Many paged form. I
Would also like to apply
For the right to breathe
The air of conference rooms
For the right to unsheathe
Words, driven to the hilt
Into conversations. My application
Includes a petition of
Guilt for arguments built
From scratch. Dear sir,
Or madam, as the case may be,
I’ve never been to your esteemed
Country. If you wish to scan
My irises you will see,
Into my soul, no doubt, and
My fingerprints will vouch
For my political integrity. I
Could provide you further
With a colonoscopy, but I feel
In my guts that you’ll brook no
Ifs, ands, or buts, and so
Dear Sir, please feel free
To take imprints of all accounts,
-Banks, permits, degrees –
I make no confession to virtues
In my possession. Visa granting is
Really all that is wanting.
Giti Chandra 