Mathew Dominic |
|
What is the ideal burial like?
With one hand putting a hole in the earth surface, fingers reaching out to the skies, so
that the abyss above can know that hope still breathes within the man. The rest of the
body surrounded by soil that is alive / Can I choose between love and death?
If we love, we will die. If we don’t, we won’t. Because in the absence of love, death does
not matter / What is the meaning of this moment?
It is the same as eternity, infinity, perpetual motion and such words that fail to contain
meaning / However, what is contained in this moment?
Everything. All of you and all that you have been. From the collision of stardust to the
thought-waves that your parents sent to each other to result in your creation. Everything,
from the spray of the seas within your mother’s womb to your first sight of light / What
am I to do now?
You must be silent. Wherever you are. Because we are approaching nothing. And
nothing is contained in this globular entity we call home / Why is it called nothing?
Because the expansive blackness that we perceive fails to cover everything, like a short
blanket that exposes your feet. But in emptiness our hearts can collide and we can
create togetherness and warmth. That is why / What is signified by the greatest borders?
They are metaphors for endings, and metaphors for the divide between opposites,
metaphors for comparison of the meek with the grand, such as the beating heart to the
pulse of the cosmos.
*
Pencil-bird
Amidst a noise of flowers in the rosebush we go fish hunting in the Rockies and flutter
like a butterfly unable to hold on to its tether which will destroy in half a second till
firecrackers come and I eat a block of cheese with a dollop of escargot sauce which is
as dark as a lost abyss at the bottom of the sea where the sea horses live and my friend
the octopus is what he is because he wraps his limbs around his limbs and it makes him
look like a mishmash of pencil shavings from the end of the street to the start of the
street they lay on the ground like a carpet which has birds in its folds which when
disturbed sets them free and they rise into the sky at a wonderful angle against the
backdrop of a lollipop sun.
*
Confluence
is a place where everything comes together. It is when you are aware of nothing but
everything is nothing.
It is, confluence
sounds are memories.
Memories are places where you are. And thus you travel. It is the thing to do. To
remember, live in now, yesterday, and tomorrow. All now.
This is why I cannot understand your idea of time. Dates, days and beginnings and
endings, are like pieces that stick out in a puzzle that is complete.
*
City
The city is the place to find sadness. Like a large invisible blanket that floats beneath
the clouds. It creeps out late at night. 3am. An awkward silence. Why does it not talk?
A reply: a stranger speaking in the dead of the night, a motorcycle murderously cutting
through the silent streets. I shift beds like girls change clothes. But it is still, the same
city. A fake darkness in the sky. Lights from somewhere. The dawn brings more gloom.
No hint of light yet. But a solitary bird has sang, and two more still. And there are others
who sing. The mosquitoes. Songs everywhere! But not the conventional kind. These are
songs with lots of spaces, lots of space. The instruments are dying, but they make such
a play of time. And here comes the dawn. A dull crescendo, painted with drippy black
paint. A moody torchlight, shooting sleepy flames into the sky. Well the dawn makes no
difference. All is the same. Except for the one hundred changes that keep changing at
the same time everyday. The sounds of the rickety auto rickshaws running to fetch
schoolchildren keeps increasing. Pigeons of grey and endless eyes start flocking to
balconies. Footsteps and shuffles in the still-dark corridors, forgotten by the sun. Fake
alarms, real alarms, screams and shouts, reminders, pressure cooker whistles, car keys
and sounds, rumbling engines and rolling gates. And of course, the crows. Remainders
of the night, painted sans light, bodies of black, scavengers of the city floor. Spaceless
spaces, suffocated earth, interlocking bricks, boring jigsaws. And also in the morning -
hungry stomachs and pails of coffee. And the night is here too, in the coffee cups. Black,
brown, some fight with milk, and take it further. Arriving Sun! Creeping in through holes
in the walls, setting curtains on fire, floors on fire, faces on fire. Out into the day, the
people go. Some resolved, some not. Some go to bring it to life. Wars are fought. On a
daily basis. City by day. City by night.
*
mind-weather of the west didn’t suit my bones
This time evokes some memories in me. distant sunrises and trying records of jet
lagged trips to the wonder west. Where there were people in the picture became my
friends because I had left. I would say one thing and one river flew; I would say another,
the wings would burn. Then in the end I came to know that this was not the way to see,
this was not the way to know.
these trials prevail when I go back home
The rain is falling. It has been this way from the beginning of my wake. I learned to
watch the river swell. These times evoke some distant memories in me. If I have been
here before I think, and if I have not, I do not. Then again, this sickness falls. Failing me
beyond my days.
the rain still poured, wise men told stories, I listened
Monsoon visitors are welcome arrivals. Crickets and chirping little things and fireflies by
the opening beside. While walking through the grounds of this place I found some dead
conservatives: filled with air and remembrances they told me that this space is vast.
I found home, lost some friends
Vast it is, in this quagmire, this place that means the world to me. They said, look for,
know what, which question, then know when to disappear. My friends, they don’t. They
are, they come. And then they walk away like this: Floating insects on the river surface,
mirror like sky is seen on her face.
my clock goes round. back to the beginning, some rest
And now it is done. What I came here for. Except that all that was started was nothing;
neither was this there to be finished, nor is the real purpose to be revealed. In sense
cacophonics some natures are revealed. True senses stay hidden, but clues are
forgiven. I will still wait here, though my insides hurt from the pain of stagnation; I will
still wait here because one day I will know.
*
With one hand putting a hole in the earth surface, fingers reaching out to the skies, so
that the abyss above can know that hope still breathes within the man. The rest of the
body surrounded by soil that is alive / Can I choose between love and death?
If we love, we will die. If we don’t, we won’t. Because in the absence of love, death does
not matter / What is the meaning of this moment?
It is the same as eternity, infinity, perpetual motion and such words that fail to contain
meaning / However, what is contained in this moment?
Everything. All of you and all that you have been. From the collision of stardust to the
thought-waves that your parents sent to each other to result in your creation. Everything,
from the spray of the seas within your mother’s womb to your first sight of light / What
am I to do now?
You must be silent. Wherever you are. Because we are approaching nothing. And
nothing is contained in this globular entity we call home / Why is it called nothing?
Because the expansive blackness that we perceive fails to cover everything, like a short
blanket that exposes your feet. But in emptiness our hearts can collide and we can
create togetherness and warmth. That is why / What is signified by the greatest borders?
They are metaphors for endings, and metaphors for the divide between opposites,
metaphors for comparison of the meek with the grand, such as the beating heart to the
pulse of the cosmos.
*
Pencil-bird
Amidst a noise of flowers in the rosebush we go fish hunting in the Rockies and flutter
like a butterfly unable to hold on to its tether which will destroy in half a second till
firecrackers come and I eat a block of cheese with a dollop of escargot sauce which is
as dark as a lost abyss at the bottom of the sea where the sea horses live and my friend
the octopus is what he is because he wraps his limbs around his limbs and it makes him
look like a mishmash of pencil shavings from the end of the street to the start of the
street they lay on the ground like a carpet which has birds in its folds which when
disturbed sets them free and they rise into the sky at a wonderful angle against the
backdrop of a lollipop sun.
*
Confluence
is a place where everything comes together. It is when you are aware of nothing but
everything is nothing.
It is, confluence
sounds are memories.
Memories are places where you are. And thus you travel. It is the thing to do. To
remember, live in now, yesterday, and tomorrow. All now.
This is why I cannot understand your idea of time. Dates, days and beginnings and
endings, are like pieces that stick out in a puzzle that is complete.
*
City
The city is the place to find sadness. Like a large invisible blanket that floats beneath
the clouds. It creeps out late at night. 3am. An awkward silence. Why does it not talk?
A reply: a stranger speaking in the dead of the night, a motorcycle murderously cutting
through the silent streets. I shift beds like girls change clothes. But it is still, the same
city. A fake darkness in the sky. Lights from somewhere. The dawn brings more gloom.
No hint of light yet. But a solitary bird has sang, and two more still. And there are others
who sing. The mosquitoes. Songs everywhere! But not the conventional kind. These are
songs with lots of spaces, lots of space. The instruments are dying, but they make such
a play of time. And here comes the dawn. A dull crescendo, painted with drippy black
paint. A moody torchlight, shooting sleepy flames into the sky. Well the dawn makes no
difference. All is the same. Except for the one hundred changes that keep changing at
the same time everyday. The sounds of the rickety auto rickshaws running to fetch
schoolchildren keeps increasing. Pigeons of grey and endless eyes start flocking to
balconies. Footsteps and shuffles in the still-dark corridors, forgotten by the sun. Fake
alarms, real alarms, screams and shouts, reminders, pressure cooker whistles, car keys
and sounds, rumbling engines and rolling gates. And of course, the crows. Remainders
of the night, painted sans light, bodies of black, scavengers of the city floor. Spaceless
spaces, suffocated earth, interlocking bricks, boring jigsaws. And also in the morning -
hungry stomachs and pails of coffee. And the night is here too, in the coffee cups. Black,
brown, some fight with milk, and take it further. Arriving Sun! Creeping in through holes
in the walls, setting curtains on fire, floors on fire, faces on fire. Out into the day, the
people go. Some resolved, some not. Some go to bring it to life. Wars are fought. On a
daily basis. City by day. City by night.
*
mind-weather of the west didn’t suit my bones
This time evokes some memories in me. distant sunrises and trying records of jet
lagged trips to the wonder west. Where there were people in the picture became my
friends because I had left. I would say one thing and one river flew; I would say another,
the wings would burn. Then in the end I came to know that this was not the way to see,
this was not the way to know.
these trials prevail when I go back home
The rain is falling. It has been this way from the beginning of my wake. I learned to
watch the river swell. These times evoke some distant memories in me. If I have been
here before I think, and if I have not, I do not. Then again, this sickness falls. Failing me
beyond my days.
the rain still poured, wise men told stories, I listened
Monsoon visitors are welcome arrivals. Crickets and chirping little things and fireflies by
the opening beside. While walking through the grounds of this place I found some dead
conservatives: filled with air and remembrances they told me that this space is vast.
I found home, lost some friends
Vast it is, in this quagmire, this place that means the world to me. They said, look for,
know what, which question, then know when to disappear. My friends, they don’t. They
are, they come. And then they walk away like this: Floating insects on the river surface,
mirror like sky is seen on her face.
my clock goes round. back to the beginning, some rest
And now it is done. What I came here for. Except that all that was started was nothing;
neither was this there to be finished, nor is the real purpose to be revealed. In sense
cacophonics some natures are revealed. True senses stay hidden, but clues are
forgiven. I will still wait here, though my insides hurt from the pain of stagnation; I will
still wait here because one day I will know.
*
