Oh Sum Total, Oh Whole
Where are you, oh the sum total, Oh the Whole,
as I shout with a moistened voice,
a darkness responds
with an invincible distant darkness.
You are far from the sum of parts, I know,
Yet I join the parts, steady and slow.
All destinies mark their insignia
Signs and symbols on their paths,
yet as I read the hieroglyph for Whole
I confuse like a newborn baby to whom
two round pieces of warm breasts mean mother
Here is my Mother ! My Mom !!
Baby wonders as it stares at her face
with utter surprise in its little eyes,
as if it explores like a solemn saint.
She is then known step by step.
In warm company, in affection and love;
Once she is discovered in the father’s bed
doing the same thing as a woman does.
A mother is a woman, in fact:
measured in pussy and thighs, bust and hips,
yet she remains a divine soul
when thought in terms of total or Whole.
Where are you oh the sum Total, oh Whole!
I fail to see you but you are my goal.
Thus fails an ascetic in church and mosque,
in a temple or a holy tomb.
‘You see these triangles’ once he said
(spreading his ragged blanket before my eyes)
‘I’ve mixed those with squares and spheres
for warmth of goodness in this earthly cold
But alas ! It’s a pale peacock of segmented rags,
a sum total of pieces and nothing more
to see a full spread of the peacock’s tail
we have to go far, go far, and fail!
Imageries Of The Yellow House
Silence has devoured the Yellow House
The owner nods on a broken couch,
No matter it is dusk or dawn;
Gloom is shelved with the dust of time;
A dead bird rests fallen headlong
on the deserted lawn.
A woman embroiders her sorrows and pains
Needling deep inside a torn-up bed;
Her little boy, with a thoughtful look
Probes into an entangled thread.
The familiar sun that shines for all
Uses the House as setting zone;
The moon unveils her reverse face
As she crosses over the House alone.
The walls are bleeding,
and the glasses distorted;
Sparrows peck their feathers off,
Tired and angry as they are.
Poets are happy with songs of grave;
I’ll give this house a magic touch,
A magic way to live and save.
The Diary Of A Voyager
(To Jean A. Rimbaud)
I bet, this crazy boat will never be lost
In an strange and impenetrable mist;
I see a light-house in the subconscious core;
Plying across a succession of seas
at last, I tell you, it will reach a coast.
A frenzied horse leap out of a court,
Split up the rope of unattainable
But in straight line it runs;
Just a few somersaults and at times in a musical trot
The Tumbling of clowns aren’t just for fun.
My master, how far can you go!
Orbital life does drag you to it’s base;
The new birds nest on the same old straw,
Observes a Wise Bird of the Ancient Days!
[1] Abid Anowar (b. 1950) First book of poems Protibimbar Mami