Can you hear it calling from the centre of my soul
to meet me on suspended wings.

The infinity is only a drop melting from our tongues.

The carnal voices of my desire seeking to kiss you
yet, in the brushing of our lips is not a mere kiss.

This is no kissing of our mouth
but the oozing of love
swimming swiftly from the loins to encounter
that which escapes every silence
climbing the ladders of moans and cries
blending the essence of our beings.

Gigi asked a very beautiful question; " What is a word, in any language that you love? That makes you feel something you like to feel?"


Having put me into contemplations, i found myself strolling in the following reflections..

How many times have you plunged your hands into your silence to grasp a word....a word that could relieve you, hold you like a child in its arms.
Words have come to me like a boat, sailing on the river of flesh, prompting in lustful whispers of desire, to make me witness my own alchemy, my daily disolving to become' nothing'.

The nothingness itself, becoming my biography, until all the verbs i have met in transition mingles with nouns and adjectives finally ends, at the fullstop of dying.

It makes me conscious of my daily orbit, my daily pilgrimage around a heliocentre of a porous silence, where urgency has no significance. Revolving to its stillness. Or rather stillness in its revolving.

Nothing is abrupt, nothing is slow,

They take the time they need, to mould in different shades and tones.

The florescent chlorophyl of my thoughts emerge out of their emotional labyrinth borrowing the sun god's chariot to deliver their futile beauty.



Words.

'Saying it' becomes less important than watching 'its becoming'.

Have you noticed how the hammer of light pounds against the silence in a word , sculpting it, giving it an unique countenance you will behold only for a moment before it shall be lost in your memory.

though, that word you shall use again, in your smile, your laughter and your weeping.

Have you watched it falls like a beam of light from the hole in the roof of your thoughts?
while the dust spirals down like a hundred billions of stars..... you spread a sheet of silence to gather it??

When a lover's hand extends to touch the fingertips of his beloved, watch the becoming of that touch..how the words in it closes its eyes, to feel all the sublime flow of love aching reaching out with all its longings.
Watch, when a leaf detaches from a tree after all its time spent in sumptious souvenirs or disasterous existence now hitting the ground, recalling no more the lofty branches upon which its danced day and night.
What word could it utter..... a murmur, more than a Christ on his cross?
Or a Buddha..asking you to be a light unto yourself!

What is a word in any language, Gigi.??...Draw contentement from it, from the distance it has travel to brings its perfume to you, to make it feel all that you feel!

Thus, leaving its unique reason for visiting you on that particuler day.


NB/ thanks to Gigi for having given me the permission to print her question.

i have been collecting rare starlights in a box
until i saw your eyes.

Never noticed your face,
never heard a word you said,
never saw how sweetness scintillated on your lips.
never saw your beautiful flowing body.
only this,
and only this i saw

From your beautiful eyes love dancing all the way to me
and my one million years of waiting got over
i have thrown away my hourglass and my box full of treasures
and am running my way to you.

Silence , my beautiful companion
the wind gets colder day by day
it growls through my bones
but i have kindled a fire so we could celebrates its warmth.
so let us squat togather
while you become my mirror, and me yours.

Salutations dear Silence, i have always loved you.
come, sit with me in the house of my being.

You and me have woven mornings togather from our nothingness
and
made handkerchieves to wipe the sweat of pain
we have carried our thoughts like mountains
and abandonned it along with our minds
in the orphanages of our intellect.

we have stepped into the boats of our soul
to glide upon the waters of freedom.
Philosophy and poetry are oars
we don't need anymore
to go where our boats shall take.

Now we can rinse our faces in the fount of our solitude
watching
every sadness ,
every joy,
pass by like strangers we never met,
never spoke.
for from where they come is where we wont go
and where they go we don't care.

we shall just sit here
enjoying the freedom
dancing in these fleeting warmth of these flames.
watch, how beautifully the fire flickers in the firepits of our being.

For a long while i've walked through places unexplored
and i have stopped here
in the middle of nowhere.
where
Thoughts incinerates in the forest of silences.
discreetly, i translate the ashes.

one tree survived
the light spills through the leaves .

The quietness, renders visible these writings
My pen, cannot transfer into them- the splendour of silence

My lips tremble to murmur these words,
these words, that could mean something to you

You can see that i have already spilt a little of it while writing
so you could guess its contents

for each word is filled with light.


i shall tell you how i find them

i find them
as i deal with my inner solitude when i miss you,
and
i sculpt them with these tools of silence.

These words are invisible temples
standing in the perfume of love
like
palm trees swaying gently in your moonlight.

i write them in ink, blood, cries, desires and laughter
revealing the dawn and the dusk upon a sky the eyes cannot see.

Look, how they stroll out of silence
a silence -- the same as the one
which comes with the cry of the new born.

but,
if i could tell you all this in a sentence, just one

the only one i'd watch carefully,

accompanying it
all the way to you.
and,
while it moves
in an unbroken procession of sweetness
i will smile
as it
in showering whispers
fall like flowers
deep
into the vallies of your soul.

Don't know into whose doors i shall vagabond into tommorow.

When you walk upon my shores
the ocean comes dancing
all i know is
i m not the one who is following you

a comet
emerges from the dark nights of my soul
falling
like the hair upon your shoulders.

Can you reduce my skies
into one word.
Can you put the full moon
into your cup of ocean.

Can't you just come over
and
sit besides me
The moon is in the cup and the sky is in a word.

Your tranparent skirt in red poppy petals
primroses on your fingers
crushed bergamot touches
long wild grass freedom in your looks
should'nt it be enough to turn me on?

Sweet lover,
Don't ask me where i am going
and where do these roads take me
where can the starlights go if not into the night
following its lonely path.

Watch, sweet lover,
watch the night swallow me
How can this lamp find its light
when vitality slips away
like a ship leaving in the fog.

Look, Honey haired angel,
Look,
How can my day stand straight
if i can't see your smile.
the morning i've been searching for
is rising in your eyes.

last night it all died
i sat there
as i have done next to my patients

red beautiful poppies growing in my soul
without my knowing it.
i watched it say goodbye.

everyday and every night
they
said many beautiful things to me
and
in them i poured
every smile,
every whisper,
every poem of love.

Now
in their dying
something quietly died.

i know as i look at them
that
one beautiful morning i too shall be gone .

hoping,
i'll find them again
in blazing fields of love where i once found them.

hoping to sit and to talk
of love
for only that alone i know to give
in that alone i subsist.

Blots and smears - words we don't see

Hopes spoils my realities.
the pieces of darkness in my pockets
argues
trying to convince that light is elsewhere
within other pieces of darkness i have gathered.


Darkness
Like
a sentence staring out of broken nibs
the words are still there humming in the ink.



Blots
on white sheets in the attempt to incarnate
smashes like ink filled balloons of thoughts
in monologue.


what could be written are spreading smears.

if only smears could threadout
in curved refinements

If only
the words in the smears could come out of their
grotsque rags
as Cinderellas in their princess gowns.
Blots could become readable to the eyes.
If not, you got to be a Blot loving artist.