Chulhe
grey high-
ways of life
the smoke threads
trailing towards
the stars
the rites of
cremation and creation
are stories travelling in the dust
*Chulhe- (plural of chulha) earthen stove/hearth/fireside, available usually in the rural areas
***
Re-membering
dust resettled dust resettling
my grandma inside the abandoned history
the torn photograph book long forgotten
inside the chambers of perhaps
a heart
***
like the dust
when you departed
the house was yet
new furniture utensils emptiness waited
for the spiders I did lose the distinction
between cobwebs and shattered mirrors
on waiting walls the sun cataract-
ed the colonnades of shadows
it took a long time and
every time I saw the dust only
in the passageway of light the air
did long for the breaths to be
returned a gust a caravan a fist
of refugees to their origins some-
how after the tiresome journeys after
on the other side of barbed wires rest-
less in alien lanes they had wandered
to lay their heads out of compassion
at first the citizens welcomed them until
the houses the hearts began to grow
narrow
for a long time we heard (we are)
their stories of coming and going
of enduring suffering of overcoming
for a long time it continued (it is)
a knock on the door
a horse cart crammed with passengers and luggage or with-
out an unrecognisable unshaven owner in torn clothes while
the most became one with the clouds of trains
each time wind came it did bring dust and dust
did bring rain heavy along with them rain
longings griefs tearing windows and walls
one after another the falling needles drowned
the house swallowed the cities in its belly now
crushed under the sea only the memories remain yet
the world is full of dusts circling one day
again the sea will sleep under the weight of time and may-
be a sand- castle
can be re-built or wait
for a cactus to appear
in wilderness
this heart your remnants are
travellers passing distance between mirage and oasis
waiting for a potter a pot to be made
a begging bowl to collect this incessant rain
where can I bury
these overwhelming scents
***
o
is it because of the shape of your imagination you are divided now between orange and zero remembering the shape of lips in amazement relief and grief o the thin red outlines all over inside the ears and mouth invisibly circling of oh okay aww urdu you from the cave the pause the gasp the wonder the bubble the bomb in the air before it bursts in shock you won’t see the sun above o³ will blind you the day you wish to drink honey tea sprinkle lemon inside the oesophagus things fall cups and break their shape shattering on the floor the question is what is the sound of o the moon seems silent and stars just nap when they reach ponds and pearls and planets are far away from the body needs to be dipped inside the silence things are connected from umbilical cords are moving the earth wildly yet in your eyes how much is taken is going will go into nothing returns from bermuda whirlpool until dragged into open air the hurricane disperses the things to far ends of four directions and things come back rolling down the breathe repeats the water crawls in the circles inside the washing machine the white cyclone along with dirt revolves in the streets something goes up and down inside the holes the looming rope pushes the necks up the seeds break from inside the grave the skull dreams of helmet hairs metal tips out of skin of belts anytime can jump the anklets quivering in the empty jars the bangles clinking the hole is minute of needle and falls the sky is just a translucent bowl turns anxious each flour and cries as the waves hit each time growls the skin shore and mama does make time bound round roti and omelette on the frying pan perspiring daily inside the bonnet bottles bucket filling h²o inserting the corks upon the top of the body after dew drops melt into o² sweeps the dust to the road and yet they return before they go controlling buttons of press and refrigerator to direct degrees of hotness and frost tick…tick…tick dust rises dusts settle remain even when the clock stops you seem to live in the universe forever before the big bang i was you were we the dust balls rolling like ghosts and will we be the wonder where will end the shapes of o ask the beginning of o and it will tell you a wet ochre poetry of poverty and pottery
***
Time’s a globe and a cage and balloon all at once…wonderful how the poem holds all the images together formally and figuratively…as does Chulhe, sketching a landscape in just a few words…and allowing for a sense of movement…a small set of steps leading up an up
Thank you so much! I’m so glad to hear this. I’m also coming to a certain understanding with my work after your observations. Thank you for opening windows for me!