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[Frida Kahlo's Love Embrace of the Universe]
The Hall of Blue Jazz
-dedicated to Chick Corea
1.
The priest strokes the organ
his music curves
around the soul of ants.
a glass of water beside him
now and then,
a blue egg falls into the glass and cracks,
then the keys of his organ recognize
the scent of river souls…
who wanted his body
so many times,
to cover with sand.
2.
the symphony ends,
and at that last stroke of war
the high priestess walks in.
she offers him the glass
“here is your drink,
here the needlework of smoke.
he is scared by her voice,
it forebodes a quiet dance,
so he asks,
“what must I pay?
“Only the fever,
if you may.
3.
In another time,
there was a wedding
in the hall of sand.
her love was always salt
or
a silent graveyard
some nights she carried
the scent of other lovers.
some nights she talked
of the river children
who came often,
with their arsenal of beauty and smoke.
4.
but now the body
of the priestess
crumbles before the ants
the graveyard in the sky
awakens
to my very dark ode.
and the children come
in horror and prayer, their children.
fever and blue eggs
are all he may offer,
and a little bag of sand.
12 comments:
Fever and blue eggs are what you offer poet...... with your surreal lines serenading through the souls of your readers.....i could feel your priestess within me, feel her piece-by-piece disintegration before the ants.....never lose thy fever Inam..... if you do i might just lose my soul.....
...this symphony curves around our souls too, even if we too crumble at that last stroke of war and words...
"and the children come
in horror and prayer, their children..."
beautiful...thats it.
sometimes small words lose their way in the clash of big words...its time we go back to the small ones,and all i would say is "beautiful"
why do u do it? everytime! ....tear my soul to shreds. how do u do it?....everytime when i need it....
you do it...seamlessly...like a drug i can't quit..i keep coming back...
u seem 2 b getting nicer...if better s cliche ,dat is....
"he is scared by her voice,
it forebodes a quiet dance,
so he asks,
“what must I pay?
“Only the fever,
if you may."
v.nice.... :)
I have to agree with Sheelonee.. after reading a couple of lines and then let it marinate and close your eyes.. you can see it!!! I LOVE IT!!!!!!
i wish youd paint that..
I give up, I surrender. I cannot read your works anymore,I will now rather dream them....
@Lord Jim : Now that makes me Neil Gaiman's Sandman, doesn't it!! The burden of offering dreams is so great. I hope I don't get sunken eyes like Morpheus in the graphic novel. But I promise to you, and all who read me, I will give my best shot. Cheers.
hey.. hadnt come here in so long, had almost forgotten how much i loved it!.. put some new writings.. love getting lost in your land!..
This is an extraordinary poem. I came to your blog from the self-portrait of love's ragpicker. Read a few of your poems and decided to write all this as a comment to this superb piece of poetry.
I found a strange inexplicable urge to read your poems in Bengali, in ad hoc translations while reading them in English. Images changed with the change in language, and I felt more touched by these translated renderings. Were these poems written in Bengali and then translated?
@Ritwik: Well no, the poems were written in English after all. I have hardly ever written poetry in Bangla, though I did write some songs once for a band I was playing with...good old days.
But yes, at times I have wished to see my poems in Bangla, I wonder how they would sound then. I probably know why you found that urge; it's because of my internalized habit of imitating a Jibanananda-like structure probably. He will always be one of my heroes. Of course there might be other reasons too, but that's the most immediate thought I got when I read your comment. Anyways, I really appreciate your generous words of praise, and I hope I can live up to it in future.
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