spring in the tropics

new moon & the first day of spring:

i missed it. i am still deep in snow,

heaviness is still calling my name.

i haven't yet seen the new sliver in sky,

have craned my head on my scooter

and seen only the stars among the trees.

somewhere, spring calls forth everything

that was buried in ice, allows death

to unfold upon the earth. fertilizer for all

the new beauty yet to come. and here,

there's only flowers on every streetside,

no fists of snow, no undersides of ice. 

december is blue skies and the beach.

january, even bluer. what a life.

and april, the cruellest month, is yet

to arrive. breeding/ lilacs out of the dead ground,

mixing/ memory and desire, stirring/ dull roots

with spring rain. even here, where the ground

wasn't dead: something did die. everywhere

something dies, a moment ends. everything

that ever happened is added to the endless pile:

memory. and even if we mix desire to this

trembling material, what will we manage to make?

perhaps newness, this time. perhaps tonight

i'll see it, the moon, still fresh from its nights

in the dark, scrubbed clean and barely ready

for another cycle, growing to fullness

and then falling away, becoming nothing,

losing everything. sliver so delicately

placed, such a tender little thing,

a fingernail hesitating on the back of a lover.

a lover, the night. springtime suffused 

with love, real love, the blooming

and the death, the tenderness

and wildness

of being alive. 

again and again,

cycle on cycle.

new moon & the first day of spring

a hundred times over,

and then something else.

goodbyeing

how odd that

every single life you build

out of air and water and what

once felt like love

will leave. this one too, 

the afternoon light fine-tuning a rosy orange

on your walls, the tang of morning yoghurt,

the jamun wrapped in newspaper a friend

brought you at a party. how your hair

falls to the sides and flaps in the wind

on your scooter. the majesty of coconut trees

on the way home, long leaf-fingers quivering.

someday, sooner or later, goodbye to all this.

not the first goodbye and not nearly the last.

i've said goodbye to more. to days that felt

more real than these. to ankles that tangled

with mine for months. i've said goodbye

to snow, goodbye to dust storms, goodbye

to my childhood. goodbye to the dreams 

too heavy to carry, even to some fears

i thought were woven into my bones.

turns out nothing is woven

into my bones, not even my unsturdy i.

someday, goodbye too to this body,

unpredictable and ashen, sometimes

glowing before dusk, sometimes giddy.

turns out i can carry nothing, not even

myself. how odd this life made only

of lightness. no point living unless

you open your heart-gates, let longing

stream into the world. love everything,

let it pile upon you. know it will

fall away, every last crumb. still you add

another card, another card, until an angle

makes everything crumble. again you build,

over all the years. get better at losing. a heart

that knows love is a heart that knows loss.

where else to go but onwards, confused

and empty and full and giddy and onwards.

song from september

 trying to touch an inner stamen

of what is mysterious

in myself

to feel i will do anything

the tips of my fingers sacred feelers

but all skin becomes audacious

when you stroke it gently

and with mystery

the very hairs still and sway

touch remains after you lift

your hand away

delicate touch shadow

feeling feeling a tingling

i am here to feel and also to describe

and understand the relationship between them

i am here, i am here, nobody's but my own

now to bed and i hope i dream

of mossy rocks in a cove

the wind on my skin when i fly

the strange tug of agency

behind my stomach

the fearlessness

that raises me in the air

in dreams sometimes

have it

what do i do with my
self this body
little finger bent in place
hair curling off my toes
dark smudge next to my
soul that feels like
the pain of being alive
it does not leave only
lingers by my side
no matter where i travel
or who i threaten
to become here it is
the dread wrapping around
my arms the fear cutting
through consciousness
this body a boat of joy
and also pain, a tied-up
boat, a boat fated
to cry, to lose, to
forget at least

what do i do where do i
keep it. won't you have it.
can't you just take it. look
i know how to love
you. anybody but me
i love so good. it'll feel
like rain, how it drenches
away all the empty parts.
let me at least try. let me
call you silly names 
kiss your evening shadows
remind you that you should
write. let me cook you pasta
with too much parmesan.
let me look at you so
shiny-eyed you'll believe
you're meant to live. let me
lean against you, just fall

like the rain into your open
palms, won't you have me.
just give me a glance. mirror
this living-ness back at me.
let me feel alive for 
just the moment
let me feel like i 
deserve this
evening light falling on
all the plants and walls

believe every streetsign

we are at
noon again

again my chai

goes cold

again it will

begin to rain

soon if

not now

believe every

streetsign, i have

told myself

and it's true

all the moths

and raindrops

and light shafts

lead me where

i need to go

even the fear or anger

that rises like a storm

in my bodyvessel

is meaningful, spilling

full with meaning if

i learn to listen

right now all the clouds

and all the people

and all the roadside peacocks

have been telling me it is time

to let go, to cast off

every weight i do not

need to carry. and the thing is

there is no weight

i need to carry

no anxiety that will save me

no anger righteous enough

july gathering

i keep trying to  wipe and wipe my glasses
to see better and better and better

some blurriness remains

some darkness remains

sometimes i get afraid that all this gathering

amounts to nothing, falls away so fast

my remembering always limited

but this time around i am trying

to wander this world with faith

fears gets me nowhere, not the kind

of fear that weighs on my shoulders

and makes me sick. it will come always

and it will always teach me something

i need to know, about the world or else

myself; but the magic lies in being able

to feel it and yet cast it away

to saunter

to the mirror

and do a little dance

stupid and ugly and all mine,

which makes it marvelous.

freedom that smells like a very fast wind,

even when i am being slow or still.

the moment is complicated. i understand

this is where everything truly gathers, exists,

in the nowness and right here of my breath.

but things take form in the river of time.

wind makes a shape when i find

the words for it, can tell

the story of my life to a friend.

this time around i am trying to believe.

in what i still cannot be entirely sure,

but it is something good. something

that wants me to be kind, first of all

to myself. to believe that all the work,

all the gathering, every long breath,

it is all coming together

like yarn, but better because

it is immaterial, mysterious, nothing

i can grab with these grubby person fingers.

all the love and learning must remain

somewhere in my body, and even

in the air. buzzing lightly, waiting

to be worn again. synapses always

firing, making new things

that i cannot see. everything so far

has come together and made this

moment, this me

most singular manifestation

sitting regally in stones

in the passing river of time.

and god am i grateful

or learning to be.

the rain again

Inside, rap on the speakers and two candles on my table.

Outside, the rush of wind transforms

into something else

and I stay still, listening.

Water descends

from the skies. Sound is made

when it hits surfaces: hard taps on the road

clangs and claps on tin roofs

muffled splashes from the trees.

Again and again I write the rain

this season. But I have hardly written

anything lately, just the wordless

pull of my breath, and then the

wordless exhale. I am, I am,

even when I don’t prove it.

I am, and that is enough 

for love, for joy, most of

all for aliveness.

when will the dog days be over?

 

trying to understand

you mumble to me but i cannot hear you

it is raining and the rain is insistent

rapping on the roof and roads

drops nose-diving into paddy fields

how can i hear a word you are saying

my glasses are dripping so i cannot

even see your lips move

little petals in the rain

your lips

two weeks in

sound of water pouring
onto the bright greenscape
dripping & dribbling 
through cracked streets

knocking on red tin roofs
making old tiles & walls
so wet it can seep 
right through concrete

all day it falls
beginning again
after each brief
ceasefire

the land responds 
like an eager lover
no drop wasted
the green growing greener

so green I can barely look
mango trees covered with creepers
the gutters full of monsteras
bright soil made magical 

how can I remain the same
when everything around blooms
so ferociously, is made damp
for days & then transformed?