A cerise the hue, my eyes shoot at the dripping red drops, from the sea am I, and over the horizon I know. I see, I see, I see. A list on list, endless the enumeration, ah! Ginsberg passing my head so quietly. Where does he? Oh, where does he head tonight? The shops have been rendered closed in California. Did he find the black in the white? What shade under the canopy of the boulevard? What paving so stony? A rock to kick, another do these hands die to pick. So there I write. Yes, there the paper and ink deep black on the white of it. Ah! Touch it I say. Oh touch it before the smell of it! Yet so close am I to the page and so far do the letters move hither and thither. Oh where do they go? How far? Which place? How much does it take for this travel, such a travel in the mind? Where the azure of the night sky? When on the stars a kiss of the nib of my pen? Ginsgberg’s sweet tooth which said, painting his dazzle black neighborhood through the iris of my eyes, but those fingers which wrote, and wrote of him – they both walked down the aisle of empty side streets. What this journey, why long as such for the sea of Odysseus to cross? Is my mast beaten by the violent wind, on the chest a blow – I am wearing thin now. Blue leggings, leg warmers skintight on my thighs; inkwell, crayons tasting mauve, crimson, bottle neck green making my meadow so lush a verdure, on some lilac tinge, a violent purple’s smear and the turquoise so dark on my skin – This the azure was I looking for. Alas! It was the paper! It is the paper indeed. Where to write? Oh where to write now? But I write, and I write the more – my duffel coat, a trolley in deep pink, no torches this time. Without them, it may be too dark – Ah! I will miss the sunshine though the sun so cruel to me. But there the sun so oft on road after road, will the glisten be etched on the stones like pearls from a seashore. A windy street someday, will my hair come undone, no clips holding the locks even now; Busy bustle, a rabble rude perhaps, but someday a smile from a stranger passing me by; Look on this now dear, see the days off and on so someday the last. My coats and gingham dirndl, locks of fabric will hang in frill, dangle about my waist tomorrow. Say not the package too much. Say not too much the luggage for is it too much to me, so much in me; call not my name, not yet Ral, call not the items one by one. They not the items to call, but take, and I will take them with me. So call not my name Ral, deaf will I be to the honk I say for I want a minute more in here. I am away, so may I write it all down, this eventide as the sun descends on the skyline of my hometown. Cerise the hue again I see, loads and loads of nimbus gathering, orange a vapor trail, ecstatic red for calm is the wind now. And then the gale again. A list once more, I am missing a lot, this an entity, that an object, and midst it all, midst the nimbus grey gathering high up yonder – there, oh there my heart on the wet soil of the lane. Now a motor bike, after that a truck, then an SUV in pale grey, or off white, can I not tell. One on one, a one way route my lane so lovely when under the mist of a winter evening – through the blur is the white of the front lights, and when on the laurel, the bushes always under the spotlight for me, through my clips and paper, by dint of the headlights of the cars I see, I see, I see them from the terrace in concrete. Papier mache, some shades in grey, some in horizontal beams cling, yes, they cling to me. The things I want, these the things of a million endeavors I believe, yet alas! When the number such? When the Earth so green? Outside the vantage when from a pink room my sight through the window. I will be away. I will soon be away. So on the glaze a line, the roughness of the surface raised here and in depression elsewhere. Time to time through this pane a beam of twilight, and on that glow a line. A sojourn perhaps, a sojourn not the next time as I say now. Will my return be? How will I be? Such care for myself I despise, where my mother to ask? Where my world in here? Home am I. Where my world in here? Likewise a list again, and again and again. The weather so serene – my convulsions over tongue all berserk on its body so tranquil. There I see the lights again, the stop sign over the head of some traffic I am yet to meet. Oh! What rabble will be? What sort of cacophonous a cavalcade? Will my way, midst the cars, the bikes changing codes of three letters city after city, will my way a thin line of lane? Will I leave morsels untouched – must I find my way back. Oh! The barrage all within me. Where will be my stay tomorrow? Now is now, some coconut oil on puree of an icy flesh of mango, things on things, and then mother’s food from the kitchenette will in smell be, pervading in the air, ah! pervading in the air like a dream in my head. Sweet, how sweet the slumber I seek. Crystals of sugar had I in blood of my veins, then how this bitterness, sour the taste, some lemony acid burning me from scalp to toe, how this swollen arms and thigh before I leave? Where is my sweet tart? I was so hungry. I am so hungry – this scenery will I embody on a single tear.
Now my feet on street not so, not yet darling. Am I so still at my place, quiet and quieter to become silent after all. Some sense in the heart inexplicable, I do not understand. I do not. Pebbles and pebbles on the wayside of the road, the bushes dancing in the wind again. Oh they are so beautiful. Why are they so beautiful? I want to tell you more, and more so I breathe and breathe and breathe heavily through the lungs, this catarrh on walls of throat will come undone, and maybe, I will sing again and you will rejoice my love, won’t you? A song on a bird’s whisper then, if not the lark your fancy – Hath Clara and Leroy sung to me on and on again of broken houses in the woods. I will sing you one, of a shadow on concrete cement of the wall that leads up the stairs by the side. Here I sit I promise, but the ceiling so close to my fingertips. Will I be away soon my love, soon enough dear. Oh soon enough. Through the glassy pane, beyond a grid in metal, layers of rust on its white paint wearing away in flakes – through this window pane the sight of my lane ahead, a brown hue not burgundy, but pink, black, orange, and God knows what! Ah! Some berries to pick up, a girl passing by the sight of my eyes. Does she know how I look at her? Does she know? Where does she saunter? Is she home? I in my stool of bamboo sit, a sprain on the shoulders perhaps, but my eyes pondering over the street only. No, oh no not a panacea at the trice! This is magical ecstasy and besotted am I. ‘Tis not night yet, not yet. And on the seventh hour of the evening, on my eyes will a slumber be, what thing, what exactly on the eleventh hour of the day? A modest drizzle, or the roar of a hurricane? Last on last, I should carry Yates with me, my man in grey coat, a ream of papers betwixt the fingers he reveals. From his end I a woman born, a man of marriage he, and on his loneliness a fallout of damp clouds above, a cyclone to hit me eleven times, yet to the road I come back. This my home, from the terrace descry I two kids on bikes with pedals two, a tandem as well may their fancy be. Will they ride along? Is she sitting right behind him on the same bike? So on and on and on a sight, a long long sight! Alack! A winter frost this volume of air I find, some words of wisdom from a stranger unknown, a laugh, a chuckle in my stomach. Not butterflies, not butterflies my dear – a perilous cul-de-sac I met with them not on my way home, but at the doorstep of the latter my heart, oh at the doorstep of this house my love. Where are you now? Hush! If by the triad of a single tree where a house can I not visit anymore, hush and hush! There an old amigo waits no longer for me. I lost her to someone in here years ago. That the house of my best friend, her house a home still, yet she a lovely acquaintance for me make, only an acquaintance and nothing more. Speak not for on your nod, on your assent a drop of dew on my cheeks and on Knightly’s end of love in disguise known by the edge by his lover’s wife’s bed, like a raindrop perhaps may it seem. On my skin and on my skin. Oh God! A colossal change, too much, too much. Art my legs so wobbly to walk past it, in case her seat at the veranda now, or she at the window upfront the street in blocks just like me, but my lane still brown. I want to saunter, ramble past it, and call it a rush of an errand. I have got a tonnage of groceries to pick up from the mart. They won’t allow. I will leave without them. Window shopping only then, a smear of foggy aerosol on the glaze of the pane, yet those dummies preponderate every number of tears I cry. Oh no! Why is Tom in my bonce? Why him? Where his Laura in the world beyond? Her glass this pane reflects, and on it his face – on it my face. Ambling thus, see where I am going. I will be away, yes, away so soon it seems. Why do I tell you the same thing again and again? Do I want you to remember something from it? What is it? Which part my dear? Did you find anything? Rough skin on a mind exasperated from delicate a break of the heart. May a home remedy then? What does my mother concoct next? What does she make? A plate of penne, ratatouille dripped in creamy sauce, thick the savory in green coriander leaves atop the juice that flows down to my dress, a sweet blancmange she makes just as well, chickpeas and grains of rice with carrots, mangetout, and the chocolate cream entirely a melt in the heat of the summer – oh she cooks; she makes them all, only now, only now! Last on last these words in this room my company for the day. I will soon be away. Last on last, sweet as a tooth of a child found on a tin roof, as fast as a goodbye just this moment to sing away, and unpredictable my mind, my own mind so to scare everything away from me. Why am I so lonely? What did I do? Yet to the road I come back, a home to me. Where my home then? There where the lane stretches; to where its voile a puckered surface of my favorite dress in intense a pink cum red a drapery, so far I will go. As far as the tree at a close distance for so far is the touch from my fingers! They don’t reach, my fingers – they don’t reach that high. Oh how tiny my hands! As far as the wheels run, the train from the station, the sound of its wheels like an echo kiss my tymani. Ah! I hear it. I hear, oh I hear it my love. All a distant murmur, that the rash behavior of the clamor in loops and cycles – the train ride home for someone, the train ride away for another, one home to his mother, and another, only a broken set of ventricles on the clean seat of the bogie. ‘Tis bloody now. Grotesque, slimy blood in drips fall by the edge. Do you see it? Oh how red it is! Don’t you see it? Her seat so ugly like my respite on it! I am all ugly. Don’t you see it? What an attempt I made, and on that this composition. Yet, alas! Lackaday! What this fear in me? Am I scared now. I am so scared now. What will happen next? Must I wait I see. Must I wait to see. Where the gates to open? Lock will you? Oh dear, am I ailing you see. Here the upper layer flat, a febrile temperature I gain from beneath the skin. Intense the burn, all bruises come alive to maim on this fever high so much that on my beads of sweat I swelter the more. I sweat the more. My mind a malaise harbor, when to a ship I will sail away – these the waters of the ocean to the brim of my eyes rise, there on the blow of the zephyr garnering peace for me from gardens still open, trespassing through the forests of sylvan sycamore where on the bitter birch tree a Finch sits for me, I will shed them in a waterfall. Stark! Stark this change upfront my eyes for now the windshield of the car, the door of the front seat I will open again tomorrow. Which way? Which way am I mother? Feed me. So hungry am I! Why all the food now? The mousse, the choux pastry, a cheese cake with milk bread and scrambled eggs, beans and peas and yellow rice in dal – a guacamole! Oh damn it! What a mess of a Guacamole now and now only! Why the food now only? On which ground the sole of me feet? I am hovering in the air, my weight so light when a heavy drift of clouds my heart becomes. I travelled places with you, yet one, and then two until three my count. A shriek ah! A shriek I shriek! Hands on my mouth to gag. Did you hear anything?
Ananya Dutta
Bharati College
University of Delhi
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