Pining for the Hills...

Each Night Put Kashmir in Your Dreams : Nilima Sheikh

Yesterday, I heard an amazing lecture with slide show by Nilima Sheikh, based on her stunning scroll painting, originating in memories, history, culture, people, landscape, dreams of Kashmir...
I put Kashmir in my dreams last night. Today I sat with a white sheet of paper and remembered the 'Chinar' tree.

One More...

that I utterly identify with...again from the same " The Penguin Book of Japanese Verse"
----
POEMS OF SOLITARY DELIGHTS by Tachibana Akemi

What a delight it is-
when on the bamboo matting
In my grass-thatched hut,
All on my own,
I make myself at ease.

What a delight it is-
When, borrowing
rare writings from a friend,
I open out
the first sheet.

What a delight it is-
When, spreading paper,
I take my brush
And find my hand
Better than I thought.

What a delight it is-
When, After a hundred days
of racking my brains,
that verse that wouldn't come
suddenly turns out well.

What a delight it is-
When of a morning,
I get up and go out
To find in full bloom a flower
that yesterday was not there.

What a delight it is-
When skimming through the pages
of a book, I discover
A man written of there
Who is just like me.

What a delight it is-
When everyone admits
Its a very difficult book,
and I understand it
with no trouble at all.

What a delight it is-
When I blow away the ash,
to watch the crimson
of the glowing fire
and hear the water boil.

What a delight it is-
When a guest you cannot stand
Arrives, then says to you,
"I'm afraid I can't stay long"
And soon goes home.

What a delight it is-
When I find a good brush,
steep it hard in water,
Lick it on my tongue
And give it its first try.

Silent Words

Blue Night Road:by Tanaka Fuyuji

The sky full of stars,
the blue night road
seeming to lead to them,
the distant village
bathed in some blue-green wine....
..........
The Stars, drowsy,
pregnant with moisture, falling
in such numbers that they seem
to haunt the road to the white barns of the village.
-----------
Stone: by Kusano Shimpei

Wax-tree, five needled pine,
Grow from a fissure.

Sodden after rain,
moss flowers reflected in granite skin.

At the deep, silent
base of coming and going

Ants and mushrooms,
temple of hill and river spirits.
Clouds drawn up to the blue skies.

Hemmed round by dripping grasses,
bluntly the stone glimmers.
----------------

Hammock: by Horiguchi Daigaku

Hammock spread by a spider
And in it a butterfly rocks.

Shrouded in its golden halo
It dies....
---------------

On the snow
Alighting gently,
the nightingale.

Bright moonlight:
The wounds in the deep snow
Will not be hidden.

Nothing there but
The Whorl of a fern:
This floating world.

Pillow hard as a stone!
Am I a cicada
That I scream so loud? -by Kawabata Bosha
-----------------
Stepping on a tendril,
A whole hill of dew
Begins to move

Warm and snug,
Ageing in his sleep
The paddy Snail -by Hara Sekitei
--------------------------

Utter genius of Japanese poetry transport one to deep, secret, silent spaces inside one's being.
These I read in " The Penguin Book of Japanese Verse"

Explanation...

Those of you who who have read the previous post on 'Seeking the Beloved' and are not networked into the Kabir-Songs, Bangalore group, might be a bit mystified by it. That poem-post was a response to a Sufi Fest that happened last Sunday in Bangalore also by the same name 'Seeking the Beloved'. This program of Sufi music from the Sind region of the country was organised by the 'Kabir Project' that has also been responsible for bringing other incredible musical gifts to this city, thereby enriching all our lives.

The first bit of my poem is a response to the joyous uplifting when Moora Lala sang in his inimitable style, his songs from Kutch. Moora Lala with his swirling mustache, 100Watt smile and
happy presence moved us all - literally! We swayed, clapped, beat to his songs and Parbat Jogi's rhythm on Dholak.

The second part of the program was by the Waee singers, Mitha Khan and Sumar Khan - this was my first introduction to Waee music and I confess it haunted my spirit, wrenched my soul,
and left a deep inexpressible, melancholy stain of not-finding the sought, one's ultimate true beloved, on my person...so the second part of what I wrote derives from that.

Lastly, I just express a hunch that surely seeking one's ultimate beloved, in the most spiritual sense would lie in being able to delve deep inside one's own self...

Seeking the Beloved...

When I sought
my beloved,
my heart
took flight-
across earth,
heavens
starry skies;
I glimpsed
him in the
dark and
radiantly light
and yet
my true beloved
remained out of sight...

Wounded,
I plunged
into my heart's
bloody cave,
tore this flesh,
desperate to brave
life's turbid currents
swirling inside
giving my beloved
a place to hide...

My breath sang
in Waee,
my heart
strummed its
beat -
I finally found
the doorway
& my beloved
for me to
meet!

Tango

We Tango
on internet
to pulses..
electrons
choreographed
in lead
and retreat-
a common
beat
defines
this
relationship.

Chopin Magic

Sunlit
shards,
shattered
smiles,
wound,
deep
inside,
when
trilling
notes,
cascade
over
deep
rumbled
tones,
& create
perfect
melody,
of
wounded
song.

On Train Back to Bangalore

Mist suspended
emerald green fields
and
a peacock in full splendor.
---
Three brown, one white,
horses graze wild lands
far from anywhere.
----
Hills striped in faith,
red and white.
----
White gopurams,
white masjid,
divided by fields!
---
Silver feather tops
on clumps of purple grass
and hazy blue hills.
---
chiffon scarf and rhinestones
cobwebs on bushes after rains.
---
Train compartment:

In panic
train races
lightnings flash
thunder roars
dusky skies;
rivulets of grimy slime
run at my feet
squatters stand
bags held high;
yet-elated laughter
at rains!
----
In Chhatisgarh-
I hum a lot
to block out thought
of class guilt and
caste rights
that I have
and they have not-
In Cg I hum a Lot.
---
Burial:

Chhattisgarh
of buried coal,
diamond,
crude ore,
now buries-
crude truths,
filthy lies,
slaughtered men,
mangled rights;
it buries
voice, vision,
dreams, hopes-
Only one flag
flies high
of corrupt might
subordinated,
to corporate
delight;
arms and guns
face the enemy
inside,
poor and mute
without
refuge or rights
wander out
along arteries of
state's power
to work in
labor camps
of factories
and mines
-dead but
buried alive
inside.

Diwali Nostalgia

Diwali used to be a big deal in the family. A once a year occasion for new clothes, endless making of sweets and salties, people in and out in brilliant shiny clothes - it was the season of plenty - plenty enough for all us kids and plenty more for neighbors, friends, relatives, poor and destitute. There was 'baksheesh' for everyone and also sweets.

I grew up and went away from home. I cried every Diwali spent wandering through a mall, catching a movie and fancy candle-lit dinner. I didn't want any of this. What I wanted was the sense of excitement, the color and the dazzle, and sharing - sharing with lots and lots of people. I grew up with a notion that festivals and celebrations were about sharing and the joy this brings.

Today, sharing is done on basis of reciprocity - account keeping of give and take, and balancing of books. It is counted who gave what to whom and what we owe, and how much, to whom. It is an elaborate social charade replacing the community spirit with contracted exchange.

However, I keep a firm distance away from these silly notions. Now, every Diwali, I deck up in saree ( a big deal for me), bottu, jewellery - tuck my pallu around and get down to the business of recreating my own Diwali - the nostalgic Diwali of my childhood. I turn into a veritable halawaii and turn out the same treats for my children! Gulab Jamun, Almond burfee, mohanthal and then fafada, choraphadi, chewdo...special meals for diwali days as written down in my recipe book by my mother, and an extra special meal for the New Year...deepams lit in rows, children in their indian clothes, husband in a silk Kurta - and lots of people all around. I do this happily, to be a child again, and to relive a Diwali from my childhood.