Cultivation (Dorothea Tanning)

Cultivating people can be arduous,

With results as uncertain as weather.

Try oysters, meerkats, turnips, mice.

My mouse field was a triumph of

Cultivation—pink noses poking

Through quilts of loam, scampering

In the furrows—until the falling

Dwarves (it was that time of year)

Began landing on my field. Fear for

Its harvest had me down on hands

And knees muttering, “Not here,”

My nails clawed at tangles of fat

Dwarves crushing mouse families.

Then, unbelievably, it was over.

By morning every dwarf, maddened

By nibbling mice, had fled the field.

Now, as before, each day, dozens

Of perfect mice leave for the city.

There, they have made many friends

Among computers, and with them

Are developing skills inconceivable

To their forebears. Already, these

Cultivated mice and their computers

Penetrate guilty secrets. Soon they will

Prevail over the turmoil that defines

This darkest of ages. And they will

Find me, asleep in my cave.

Source: http://theparisreview.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/5987

7

Profusely suffuse 

Defused by profanely obtuse. 

(Penned Jan 13, 2010)

私の最初の日本語の詩

Watashi no saisho no nihongo no shi 
My first Japanese verse (Edit I)

夜が訪れる
眼に火を付ける
夢の小さな世界
直射日光のように明るい

yoru ga otozureru
me ni hi o tsukeru
yume no chīsana sekai
nikkō no yō ni akarui

その意味: so no imi: it means:
night falls
eyes ignite
little world of dreams
bright like sunshine


(Penned Jan 6, 2010)

The extraordinary stillness of the year past

Some things haven’t changed.

We still walk into glass doors and flush like a turnip. We still grin through our faux pas’ and roll from one place to another with both feet in the mouth. We still secretly harbor an endless reserve to pester and still get kindly humored by the remarkable people we pester. 

We still forget to return personal calls and what makes up the sparsely populated ‘personal’ still remains as infinitely accommodating as ever. Weekends are still all about toggling multiple schedules; after which we still invariably invoke rain checks to do nothing but sloth around the house. The bookshelves still keep filling and Mother still frets about things she has fretted about forever.

This little world still keeps getting closer, getting dearer as friendships of years still defy constraints of distance, space and time. Fresh sparks of purpose still alight today’s beauty by the beauty of that which we do not know of yet, but what we will be part of tomorrow.

We still endlessly wonder how much of ourselves to be with people; and all this wonderment evaporates in a poof within moments of joyous folly. The body of regrets still diminishes as whatever we thought we might have left behind at some point of time, randomly swerves by to pleasantly surprise every once in a while. 

The Buddha still brings so much calm and all instinct is still centered around a certain sense of unknowing, which drawn by infinite belief never seems to die. Our cards still speak to us and our dreams still eerily reveal to us the truth behind things we truly ought to know.

Okay, so we have still been waiting for our 5 very loving fishes to finally morph into a dog.

But there has still been much about the passing year, to be silently thankful for. 

Des nuits en hiver

Ce n'est pas

Qu’on attend

La neige tomber

Mais quand
Un petit morceau d'un flocon de neige

Trouve son chemin chez soi
On se demande

A propos de tous les ombres

qu’il a touché. 

(Penned Dec 31, 2009)

En Anglais: In English:
It is not
That one waits
For the snow to fall
But when
A tiny bit of snowflake
Finds its way home
One wonders
Of all the shadows
It has touched. 

Lights out

And first of all, it goes away from here.
All of it?
No, not really. Some of it escapes.
How can you tell ?
You cannot. But it always does.
Where does it escape to?
To some part of you, you do not know where. It does not matter where.
It hides?
No. It takes shelter.
Why?
Because it needs light.
And then? Does it come back?
Not right away.
Then when?
It takes its time. It finds its way.
To back here?
Yes, to back here.
How will I know?
You won’t. But one day, it will tell you.
That its here?
No. One day, it will tell you to leap.
Then, should I?
You will know.
Will I fly then?
You will find out.
How do you know so much about it?
I just know.
Will you tell me a story about it?
I just did.
No. Will you tell me a better story about it?
I will.
When?
Not tonight.
Then when?
Tomorrow night.
Really?
Yes, really.
You promise?
Sleep child. And you will know.

Long way home

She took me along with her that day.

She was meeting her girl friends in the park. She had yoga class that evening and did not want to be late. While lounging there, one of her girl friends got a call from the office. It just wouldn’t get over. Tina’s dog Frisbee spotted a cat and gave chase. Tina followed hoping Frisbee wouldn’t get run into by some cyclists. Kips spotted an ice cream vendor. It would be a good idea to have some ice cream by the pond that afternoon. We agreed and she was on it. It was nice and green all around. There were white lotuses in the pond. They seemed to drift gently every time the breeze made ripples in the water. Actually they did not. There were rooted.

She was focusing on the lotuses. It suddenly seemed so quiet. She could hear me. She kept hearing me. That made her realize how long her friends were taking to get back. She was getting late for yoga class. It annoyed her. She looked at me. She could still hear me. What could I do? That’s all I do. That is what I do.

It looked now as if she was smouldering. Her friends were still not back. She got up and packed her things. She was forgetting something. She put on her shoes and picked me up. She told me, I hate you and flung me into the pond. I had no warning. Okay I have two feet but would I do? Run? 

I did not fall near the lotuses. She did not want to hurt them. I was sinking rapidly. There was heavy traffic. A dense school of pink fishes was running into me. I was still sinking. I thought one of the fishes would hurtle right into me when it gulped. It gulped me right in. I was inside the fish now. I made the pink fish very bulgy. I made it different from the rest. The others could hear it now. I made the pink fish noisy. The fish was still quite hungry.  It spotted a minnow nearby. As it drew closer, the minnow swam away and escaped. The minnow could hear the pink fish. The school understood that if they were around the pink fish, their food would swim away too. The school deserted the pink fish. By now, the pink fish was starving. I was not enough. It sensed a wiggling in the water and bit in.

There was no water around us now. The pink fish was flying in the air. It had bitten the bait. It was caught. Hey look, I got a big’un, a voice said. The pink fish soon stopped breathing. It was piled on a big heap of fishes of all colours, mostly grey, some silver. They could not hear me. They were all dead.

I suddenly felt a rush of cool air. A big knife just chopped up the pink fish into two. A hand hardened with calluses scooped me out of the fish. The hand was disappointed. I wish you were pearls, it said. If you were eggs, I would get a good price. But I was not eggs either so the hand threw me over the back. I fell on fish scales and fish insides. It was not a pretty picture.

Only the truly needy would reach for me from there. But someone did. I was shiny. I caught the sun. It was a tramp. He could not hear me. He was drunk. I can sell you for booze, he said and staggered to the pawn shop. It was a quiet shop made of red wood. The tramp was a regular. I got him enough to buy him at least a bottle he mumbled.

The pawn store owner gave me a good rinse. He could not get the pink fish off of me. I was placed on a high shelf so I would not put the customers off. It was not a very respectable pawn shop although it was made of red wood. I was surprised to see a respectable gentleman walk in. His young grandson followed him. I was catching a little sun from the window. I was shining. Nana, I want that, the little boy said. Nana did his bidding. The pawn store owner made a good profit. The little boy could hear me now. His ear was the first thing that felt warm.

Look Mamma, what Nana got me.
Where did you get that? Mamma said almost with alarm.
Why? said Nana.

Mamma smiled Let me make you boys some tea and I will tell you.
Over tea, Mamma brought out a glossy book. It had lovely pictures. Mamma pointed, Look here. See this. I was in the book.

Mamma worked at the museum. Mamma said I was important. Lost, untraceable, much looked for and important.

I sit in a glass case now. I have my own hallway. The little boy still comes to hear me. He is not so little anymore. He is still warm, his ear even through the glass.

Now everyone can hear me. All these years, I never stopped ticking. That’s all I did. That is what I do.

(Penned Dec 20, 2009)

The reward (Ogden Nash)

In my mind's reception room
Which is what, and who is whom?
I notice when the candle's lighted
Half the guests are uninvited,
And oddest fancies, merriest jests,
Come from these unbidden guests.

Flash retreive

It all spools one early lazy day home (Blogged Sept 7, 2006)
 
I want to blog but I don’t know what to blog about or that there are too many thoughts too few fingers to blaze them down. For starters, I am home early and I don’t know what to do with myself. I fed my fish and sat staring at them for about a good fifteen minutes. I fly tomorrow and my bags are already packed - clothes all rolled up neatly in rubber-bands as a space saving tactic. I have nothing to do. Life as a control freak - I think that is what I have become.

Why don’t you do up your hair he says. Whatever for and why? It is just so comfortable and simple and easy. She just got a complicated haircut and spends 20 minutes ironing and styling strategic strands every morning for 'the look' the stylist sold her. I shampoo, bunch up the mop on my head with a clip and it dries in office. I am so happy to be a slob. When did these things begin to matter? I do what is important what makes a difference. FIIs in emerging market equities won't plummet if I do up my hair. I wonder what else I have to hear next. But it is interesting. I thank life for its variety.

'Métro boulot dodo' that’s what the French call my way of life. So I am going to Singapore and she tells me to get my trip extended. He says he will jump off the sixteenth floor if I get my trip extended. My life is full of these generics - he's and she's. They keep swinging by like trapeze artists, like the tennis ball in a tennis match.

I know what to expect from Singapore. I will spend my flight time making a list of people for whom to buy things. I will make a list of things to buy. I will kill my non-mathematically inclined brain converting currency in every store. Hopefully I won't get lost or mugged.

It will be chok-a-blok live animated streets bright neons in the night, revelry, drinking and dancing. I will go by the waterfront and gaze into it like a fool thinking Paris will be so much better. I will do things so people think that they are being good hosts and feel good about themselves but I will be truly happiest when I am snug in bed with my socks because the floor is always so cold. I will miss my albino shark because I love the pores on his skin and because he stops dashing into the glass like a blind torpedo when he sees me. I will miss my people because any place is always so much better with them around.

My people calls me from Jersey thrice a day to connect me to sisters in Singapore I have never met in our lives so I don’t get lost. My people in Birmingham gives me a weekly countdown to the next India visit and it kills me that I act like such a cold wall to such advances. My people in Amsterdam sent me Calvin and Hobbes for two weeks everyday until I gave up being too mad and too cross. My people is in Germany and returns on the 10th and I hope we bump into each other at the airport if nowhere else. It really doesn’t matter where I am for my people is never with me.

And he asks me why I don’t do up my hair.

An old favourite

Moon River http://bit.ly/53laJD