Three Poems by Gopi Kottoor

 

From a Hotel  Terrace,

The Ganges.

 

The eyes zoom to a woman at sea, on a canoe,

Holding a small urn.

 

She has moved from fire

To water, her hands quivering

With ash, petals and bones.

 

Upon her face

The wind pecks unsaid words.

It is quiet by the Ganges.

The blue waters

Pigeon their white waves,

Returning an evening  mantra    to the coloured skies.

By the steps of the ghat,

Shiva's third eye alights

On  wet

Breasts,

That must henceforth  be blinded,

And paints darkness

In the yonis of widows

Fresh as meat from the slaughter

Of death

Burning their husbands

In the  nearby funeral pyres.

Here’s the  beginning of thirst

And its ending,

That from now  will burn

The frankincense of penance.

 

A Photograph in the Woods

 

When I locked my house

Preparing for a stroll

I paused and told myself

Let me take the other

Road today. The road

 

Less taken. All about me

Lay the auburn leaves that fell,

As more and more kept falling.

That afternoon I remember

Was all leaf- rain.

 

Bathed in falling leaves

I walked on

Until I came upon an oak tree

Where I had me rest.

All around  me

 

The small acorns

Fell, with their tiny dead  heads of clowns

As though they meant

The fall of  life

And all that was there  left

 

Was  a dry weeping.

I took a deep breath and was about to Leave, the sun a wet afternoon bird among

The tall branches,

When below,

Among the roots that had grown thick

Among a mound of fallen oak leaves

 

I saw a smile.

Soon a breeze blew uncovering the leaves

And there she was

A picture in a frame

Someone  perhaps wonderful for someone A long time ago;

The polka dots upon her youthful dress still innumerable  where the ants moved

In endless directions.

 

It was such a smile

In which I too mirrored upon the dusty  glass ,       

Her face a caked beauty

Where the birthday candles no more burned;

Those beautiful treasures 

Of the human flesh

 

no one needed anymore

To press close to the heart

Or  perhaps nail upon a wall by a beloved  home door; and here thrown,

 

To  blowing leaf, rain and winter

In stippled darkness

Of the rolling of  the rising thunder

of the rustling oak leaves, her throne,

life's true home.

 

Toy Pistol

 

Every morning I see him at five

As I go for my morning walk,

The buds on the trees

Are just waking

Like slow bird-eyes from deep sleep.

There's a small chirping

Like almost weeping

In joy among the trees.

It is God. He's baking

Another dawn.  And then

I hear the creak of rusty wheels,

And see  the dung pusher

His rusty trolley

Filled grey green, its clouds

Sombre, almost a Cole painting

And it's all over his body

Those  slimy morning tattoos

And he's carrying the burden

To fecund

The coconut trees. He says no

Good morning, he pushes his cart  in just one direction,

 it is his morning bread,

His poetry. And I pass him by,

The stench, raucous,

As he goes about with his trolley, muted, with that impasse

As  a military man over the frontier  with his tank.

There's a  sudden small rain,

The road overflows

It is all liquid grey, but he isn't sorry.

For, this is nature, this is a burst of  flowering,

This is the wisdom of the earth.

In the evening

I pass him by again.

He's on his bicycle with his lady love behind.

She holds him tight,  her face pressed upon his back

As though he is

Dandelion  in blossom all over. But I can smell his cows

From this far.

And in front of him

Dressed like a cowboy

With a Texas  hat upon his little head

And gold stars upon his  coat all red, is  their little one

With his toy pistol

Suddenly turning round

Shooting his father, his mother,

Who pretend again and again    

That  they keep falling dead,

to appease his rolling scamper

And there's so much delightful

Shooting in the air

And such is the evening laughter

That fills the quiet  dung street

In sundown

Going bang bang bang.

 

Gopi Kottoor has a poetry Blog https://gopikrishnan kottoor.blogspot.com

He edits the online poetry journal www.chipmunk.co.in