Of living: A Few Poems by Srikanth

1

We

I will write a little poem to you

a little little poem
that is like a sparrow
that is like a little
little flower of grass

a little little poem
that flutters around you
like a sparrow
a little little poem
that lingers around you
like the scent of grass
bringing with it the love of rain

we are parched
we are the lands of drought
in an alien land –

we are we are
stars distant and yet so close
we are we are
dust of stars and specks of sun
we are we are
we will be and we shall be

a memory
of those hands
that engulf you at night
to bring you peace
to bring you death

we are, we will be
and we shall be

we will be.

2

another little little poem

A vase of flowers, I keep
at the edge
of your being –

You are the water
You are the sunshine
You are the one
Who watches over those flowers
You are the one
Who rains over those flowers
You are the one
Who gives perfume to those flowers
A perfume
Of being
That haunts me
Wherever I go
Whatever I do –

Death is easy. It is only that
Living is hard!
I said that this is
A little little poem

Watch it. At the end
Of this sentence
You will find a being

Staring at the other side
Of your dreams
To say ‘thank you’

To say ‘I love you.’

3

as it is

crystal, crystal clear are your eyes
that watch the night
made white by crystal, crystal

clear gaze of your pain –

You. You of mine –
white is the light that binds us
to our Father,

To our Mother, the Other!

This chest of mine is a graveyard –
Come. Fall or bury
yourself in these wide-open arms
of mine: arms
that are wide open without
a promise of the future
or the burden of the past –
Did you see?

I am the night made into light
by the presence
of the crystal, crystal
clear gaze
of your pain –

Come. Fall, bury or you can die
easily in these arms
that are as barren as the country

of mine. Take this:

I love you, though I know not
what love is!

4

what if

what if a circular sign in a sudden gesture
illuminates that you cannot return
to what you were anymore?

all the lives that you have lived, all the deaths
that you have witnessed
all the loves that you have buried
and all the things
that you could have done but could not

what if they have become
drops of water, tears
on a moist mirror?

is this the choice the choose between
a sword and crucifixion?
is this the silence that sizzles
between the living and the dead?

what if, if this is all a fragment
of that forgotten life
which whispers through a dream
that is often forgotten?

who lives? who dies? who leaves
and whose sacrifice?

déjà vu. déjà vu. déjà vu

5

Who

This pebble is an old man basking in the sun waiting for death
Or it could be a bird resting
Or it could be a word waiting to be picked by a vagabond –

Who knows, after this evening hour
In the darkness
Who will pick up this pebble and play it like a flute
Who will turn this pebble into a song
And hug the entire sea with the two old tired hands

that always loved
A pebble, a bird, a word and the flute song of the sea?

6

I/eye

Your eye is a stone
that shines and hurls towards my body
in the night –

Circled within itself, darkness, a bird
Of madness –
Curled within itself, your word,
a prayer of death: and

between the two hands

that separate emptiness
from my dream

Your eye is a black stone
That shines and hurls towards my body
In the rustic silence
of the night –

7

Silence

Silence is a rare flower
of light that blooms at the most
unexpected of times –

Time of times and love of loves

Silence is the mother of the other
The other of the mother
that sings with a faceless voice:

“Come! follow me, but with
a longing in your heart.”

8

Trace

Someone lit a lamp long ago
and the universe
had begun!

I held her hand, I lay my head
in the shade
of her breasts and said:

“It’s enough. Please
take me home
now.”

A little later all that remained was
a lonely man
in a lonely lonely universe

and then finally she said:

“All that was and all that shall be
is this: a rose wilted
being in its shadow, and

a trace, and a sign
that the bird is on the song:
now.”

9

so far

How did we come so far? she asks him –

Her sad fingers rest in his palms and his hands shiver
to her touch, meanwhile, the house kneels
before the night: neither he nor she knows if it is

for a prayer or for slaughter. And, in the meanwhile
all the things that they have done
so far to keep them alive remain there, with them

like those dolls beside a sleeping child –

And, the nameless flower that he gave her in the
morning, lies there on the table
in its shadow, far away from the vase –

How did we come so near? He asks her –

10

what will come

What will come and what will go with this summer
except her hands, tired
which prepare food for you

so patiently and so silently

Her eyes burdened by her life and your life
follow you into the night –
You seem to be asleep. In her sleep last night

she says, she saw a little girl

who in her sleep saw herself prepare food
for you, on those
endless summer nights

so patiently and so silently

so that when you get up, you’ll find
the table always ready:
the food carefully placed

and the jar of water and a glass
cautiously kept to a side
on the table, and a napkin

so diligently placed on the chair
so that you can wipe your washed
hands when you finish eating –

And then she asks you, with words burdened
by her lost years and your lost years
what happened to the little girl who slept

so silently and so peacefully at night
with a slate, books
and little dolls all around her?

and then you suddenly realize that
that you have become old
that, that the hands which served you

so patiently and so silently
have turned to dry twigs
and that her eyes have finally

become pure memories –

moving into the night you mumble
to yourself knowing
that she didn’t expect an answer

“What will come and what will go
with this summer
except your tired hands and eyes

that wait for me, like death,
so patiently and so silently?”

***

Image: Rafi Haque