Notes on a non-sunny evening in the park.

Only in the heat of the sun, do I ripe like a mango. Otherwise, it’s a silent existent spent inside, looking out of the window, waiting for snow. There is the slow rise of the tulips out of its grave, professing its existence but then there is it’s return back the dirt it belongs to. That is how I gauge spring. For all it’s follies, it is the season that suits me most.

There is a gentleness to the soft, dewy grass under bare feet that I cannot even find in the first snow of the year.

There is a bravery in submerging yourself in still cold freshwater, only to go back to the heat to dry. There is a simple joy of strawberries making its back way into my vocabulary.

I was born in the winter, but it was to live through spring. I bet my first spring was spent in wonderment and awe, I bet I thought the flowers in my backyard would last forever.

I am as close to the soul of the mud as I can get, yet I don’t hear much other than complaining.

I am as little and as big as I can be at this point, yet I will never be friends with the ladybug or be able to look the tree in its eyes.

And still, I declare, I am alive as water. I am ecstatic and never satisfied. I may glisten in the sun but I harbour life through the years. 

This is the joy in me, the might of all my lives combined to create this one moment of pure bliss. I am here, I exist. Now, let’s check the weather-report.

पार्कमा घमैलो दिनकोबारेमा नोट्स 

घाँमको तापमा मात्रै आँप झै पाक्छु अन्यथा, यो मौन अस्तित्व, झ्याल बाहिर हिउँलाई कुर्दै बस्छ यसरी ट्युलिपहरुको  आफ्नो चिहानबाट  एउटा ढिलो उदय, आफ्नो अस्तित्वको स्पष्टिकरण गराइकन, आफ्नो माटोको भुइमन्डलामा फर्किजान्छ बसन्त त्यसरि नाप्छु, त्यस्को खोठरु धेरै होलन्, तर मलाई सुहाउने ऋतु बसन्त हो

खाली खुट्टाको तल शितले पोतिएको नरम घाँसमा एउटा कुलिनता हुन्छ जुन सालको पहिलो हिउँमा पनि पाइन सकिन्दैन 

आफुलाई अझै चिसो पानी मुनी डुबाउन एउटा वीरता हुन्छ, त्यो सबै गर्मिको तापमा सुकाइकन भुलिन्छ   ऐंसेलु व्यक्तिगत शब्दावलीमा फर्किएकोमा एउटा सरल हर्ष हुन्छ

हिउँदमा जन्मिएकी  थिए, तर त्यो बसन्तधरी भरी बाच्नकोलागी थियो बाजी लगाउँछु, मेरो पहिलो बसन्त हैरतता   विस्मयित भैकन बित्यो होला, बाजी लगाउँछु कि मैले मेरो  बारिमा भएका फूलहरु सधैकोलागी रहन्छ भनेर सोचेकी थिए होला माटोको आत्मको नजिक छु, यो भन्दा दूरी कम हुँदैन, तापनि  गुनासो गनगन बाहेक केहि सुनिन्दैन

ठ्याकै त्यती नै सानी ठुली छु जत्ती यो समयमा हुन सक्छु, तेहीपनि लेडिबर्डसँग साथी हुन सक्छु, रुखसँग आँखामा आँखा जुदाउन सक्छु   यद्यपि घोष्ना गर्छु, पानी झै जीवित छु मग्मगाउँछु कहिल्यै सन्तुष्ठ हुन्दिन   शायद घाँममा टल्किन्छु होला तर भित्र सधै, कतियो वर्ष देखी जीवन

यो मेरो हर्ष हो, मेरो पुर्व जन्महरुको उग्र मेलले एउटा क्षणलाई निर्वाणतमा लेराइदिन्छ, यहाँ छु ,   पूर्ण रुपमा छु   अब, मौसम रेपोर्ट तिर लागुम    

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11th April 2018: For Mary Oliver

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In the tub, I become a conjoined

twin, seeing my soul on another,

more playful body-

her fingers lather my face with dishwashing foam-

Outside, I hear birds cut through the

skies

with their chirps but my ears

linger on the cars- would

the birds follow the passengers home safe?

How do I tell my friends that I have decided to become a hermit-

to cocoon myself in my own world, a making of stubbornness and ego;

my echo chamber becoming my bones that echo all my ideas, back and forth, till it reaches the tip of my fingers

and pours out

in the form of awkward verse.

How do I tell my friends that my happiness or not-happiness is not up for taking questions,

and that I merely want to meander in and out of people’s lives like a fishing boat kissing and leaving and kissing and leaving the dock.

I know, I am selfish, but I am prepared to repent once in a blue moon,

if it means I can be selfish. If it means my friends will let me be a stubborn hermit

whose hermit ways are different to than most hermits’ ways.

I am gentle when I need to be, patient and kind. I know of my fickleness, I am aware of myself to an agonising extent.

and god, every day, I decide to like myself better.

Today I did, anyway-

and so I would be liked to be left with myself, with my noisy bones and my naked limbs.

I am, after all, all that I have-

because what is a hermit if not slightly desolate?

Yes, friends, I am certain you cannot fix me,

for I am stubborn and refuse to be fixed. Instead, like a hermit-

I would like to lie in an imaginary bathtub for an eternity.

See you soon.

 

I want to believe there is a softer world
made of cotton, and silk walls;
Whoever you are
Wherever you go,
may you find the bliss
that we denied you.

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Burnt Out

I feel like the electricity is being drained out of my body. I feel spent. I have lost against the world, and I hole myself up, deciding to forego the outside.

Yesterday, I journaled after a long time, but I could only put one word in front of the other with the foreknowledge that I would be burning the paper. I am not a wrecker, I am far too attached for that but in that moment, I was an arsonist, I was a paper hater.

 

 

Frosted

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Frosted Spring flowers, break through the earth

raise their broken off petals towards me,

I crawl down and shove mud down my throat

until I am eaten alive by frosted spring earth.

 

Head first, my body falls with the grace of gravity

in the hot, melted molten core, I breathe in the toxin

only to be snatched hair up towards the heavens by-

Entropy, I leap towards chaos, feel her soft breasts

caress my hardened heart.

Yes, just so.

 

I fall like Alice, constantly and with no dignity

The universe passes through me, piercing my skin

like a million tattoo needles writing ‘tulips’ over my thighs.

I am in pain and ecstasy, at once, like shy sweet lovers

gasping in the night.

 

I am here. Small, protruding jaw,

Opposable thumbs.

Singing and reciting the holy song of Prufrock like a mantra

meant to heal my slowing metabolism and faltering metamorphosis.

I am all empty metaphors, forgetting to get off on my stop,

my destination whirls past me, but the cosmos catch me seeing

life through a cling film,  a sharp pair of teeth bites through

my neck, scarring me delightfully until I fall through the tracks

into the earth, head first with a sharp slap;

hot, melted molten core.

 

I feel myself rise with the spring flowers,

downtrodden though they may be,

In a forest of polarising features,

Whose woods these are, I think I know,

but before I knock at her door,

I have promises to keep.

And parsecs to go before I sleep.

And parsecs to go before I sleep.

 

Perfectly Fine

It has been a quiet day

filled with silent letters and strange consonants

most lazy Sundays are spent in the comfort of oneself

but mine are spent escaping the one I call self.

 

My fingers have stopped reacting to the dialogue of my mind,

I wake up feeling like an oyster trapped in a blackhole.

 

Neo-fascists argue over the conception of existence,

And I wait for the moment of ultimate truth,

I have been waiting for it like a book without a spine.

I have been waiting for it like a river awaits the Nile.

There is only one truth that humans adhere to.

 

My personas are performances, but if I knew my true self

I would bury her all over again. But I don’t know her,

she is unfamiliar to me-

like foreign consonants that my tongue refuses to hold onto.

 

If I knew the true meaning of self,

my eyes would stop lingering over images of bathtubs and pills

or of pebbles in submerged coat pockets.

I should have been a pair of ragged claws

holding on to the sky

creating life on Venus.

 

My fingers should have been hammers,

hanging pictures of flowers wilting away everywhere.

except they are hammers that grind through my ribs

a colossal amount of bone to snort.

 

I am perfectly fine, well fed,

well housed, well clothed.

But my soul is a blackhole that has sucked all the oyster out of my eyes.

I am a joke with no punchline.

I should be perfectly fine.