Friday, January 24, 2014

Ponderings While on a Walk Back from Nowhere

I am experiencing that late-January chill and sublimity. There is a hush in the rooms; a tickle in the soles of my feet at night, a rustle in the air; I love it. Because of my jobs, my reading is slower, books I could finish in 3-4 days now take 2 weeks! So the red tick-marks against the titles in my 2014 reading list is disappointingly few. Hunger Angel by Muller is the first book on my list that I crossed off last week; I'll post a review on Goodreads later. 

These days I am listening more and more classical and contemporary concert pieces and poetry readings;  violin concertos are the best. Today I melted into Mozart, Sibelius and Paganini.  

 I should be writing more, but everything is so slow, the laziness is almost seductive. It is as if I had taken a draught of that mythical mead that has put me on a drowsy euphoria. Even at noon, I feel like I am gliding gently through the mellow, fluffy clouds. I speak to myself more often and it is becoming a little obvious. I think I am becoming transparent, leaves flutter through me, my veins are turning into shimmering dust, my hair melting into the sky. 


Monday, January 13, 2014

To Margaret Atwood

Dear Poet _
I read you to subdue the cyclones sucking my bones;
I want your rivers to corrode me
your verses becoming glistening flotilla-
in my tongue; sprouting virulous clouds.

Dear Poet_
I need your poem like an intravenous drip
soaking up your elegies-
my skin exhaled warbling thunders.

Dear Poet_
I drown in your poems while-
my organs weep conifers and ferns;
in the hypnosis of your embrace-
I become porous,
I become the brightness between trees.

Dear Poet_
I gather the sunsets falling in your eyes-
disassemble your pauses-
you make me cry in free verse.

Dear Poet _
Shall I-
navigating through your body
drive a creaking van over-
the winding alleyways of your veins.

Dear Poet _
In trying to figure you out-
I become-
a floss, a filter, an algae trapper;
sieving the secrets in your wild hair
I carry an ectoplasm reader to find-
the ghosts of your finger tips.

Dear Poet _
I need to delve deep in your story
tell me, from the start-
the first mitosis, the first fin,
the first tentacle, the first flight.

                 - Jeena Mary Chacko (2014)

Monday, January 6, 2014

My Hunger Lies Between Your Words

Yet you elude me-

I give my words legs and watch 
them walk away, giving birth on sidewalks
and eat up all creaks and chaos 

Old crones and crows walk under my eyes at night,
leaving footprints-
they turn to voices in the rays
drifting away, pieces running off-
Into places inside me that I didn’t know existed
piercing them;
and then infused in you,
I write my story, the unremembered epilogue.
You shall read me like a river
(Yes, like a river - with a zoologist’s precision
examining its halolimnic ramblings)

While your words,
a pebbly brook of pauses and punctuations,
I waddle through feeling-
the tingling incoherency of its hydric warbles;
my ankles squeal.

Every time you exhaled, a tendril within me unfurled-
I pause, I pen, I poem.
- Jeena Mary Chacko (2013)

Picture: Me at Kotagiri, 6 years ago.