Filed under: destiny, growth, happiness, religion | Tags: couple, English, Ganesh, Indian, love, magenta, peridot, wedding
English at an Indian
Wedding, sitting in
The crowd among
The drums and
Auspices like weeds
Among the cultivated
Saries with their
Yellow and magenta
Blue topaz and
Peridot sheen.
Looking on Indians,
At home in their religion.
At One with
Whatever it is that
Made them.
The English hope It made them too,
When they come to looking
In the dusty files labelled
Wedding, funeral, birth.
God and gods and people and family weave
Together and in this
Web, the couple
Catch the tricks
They need,
Sharing the cords,
Keeping them taught
With Love,
The remover of all obtacles,
Ganesh.
Filed under: growth, healing, love, nature, pain, regression, shame, strength | Tags: ache, apple, autumn, bell, doubt, girl, loss, love, muisty, poetry, romance, worm
1.
My name is girl
My age is when
I feel the day
My height is fringed
With misty things, the haze
That surrounds all,
Air , or something like it,
Electrical.
Part 2.
My fate is but a worm
Squirming in the sand
Beneath an apple on the
Beach.
My rubbery coil senses Autumn’s
Mellow fruit but feels
Only grit and cigarette ends,
Yellowed with spit
And the odd spat of sea.
Part 3.
My Date is a round
Can of something fizzy,
A man, who’ll pop
And bubble over
With sense and tunes
Told well, with confidence
Like some voluntary tramp.
Part 4.
My ache is a bell
Bent out of shape
Chord twanged by the wrong
Hand. Who’’s hand?
Who cares? Lets fix it,
If it’s copper it’ll meld well.
Part 5.
My tune is a song
Soldered on to the side
of my liver, an odd
Audience, granted,
But keen, it knows exactly
Where I’ve been and what
Deals Life’s dealt.
No, livers make grand audiences,
They’ll tell you whether or not
You were truly magnificent,
With their view from the stalls.
Filed under: acromegaly, cafe, eating, food, growth, pain, regression, strength, weather, willpower | Tags: bricklane, closing, coffee, guidance, Kipling, life, lost, money, neglect, regret
Sweeping round my feet, no ceremony.
Customer-centric ? What?-
Too close to closing time.
Anyway, this tables’s mine for now,
And on its pink lino I’ll rest
THis little black book,
And a tweed elbow
Like so many others, hordes, in fact,
Vintage with Youth.
I’m here now writing, instead
of Yoga or eating, to stop time
And take stock.
Of what? Of myself, of course-
Narcissism or self-awareness I can’t
Tell, self-indulgence, perhaps.
‘Soup of the Day was three pounds ten.
Why ten, what’s in it for them?!
Three pound is round.
Rhyming won’t get me anywhere.
One day I hope to be above all this.
Taller trees generally have deeper roots to
Counteract the blast of the wind.
Blast this music! Always the same
Here at Coffee@, NOISE,
Racket designed to be heard,
No need to listen.
Why have I come here
To get myself in tune – all this din.
Well, if I can’t tune here I can’t tune anywhere..
Thats it! Back to Kipling,
‘If you can keep your head when
All around are losing theirs
And blaming it on you..’
Yes. I’ll keep my wretched head and
Forget regret and neglect
The errors of a self
Lost, waiting for a way out
Not picking up Ariadnes’s
Guiding thread.
Filed under: control, destiny, earth, growth | Tags: planned, tree, worry
To worry is to predict shoots
On a sapling
No tree can be planned,
No sprout withdrawn,
Only cropped.
