Tag Archives: bed

How nature her moves

 

Bhagawhandi P. was an Indian girl

whose brain a malignant tumour’d swirl.

Admitted to hospice in seventy-eight

the time-bomb ticking ‘it’s getting late’.

 

At nineteen she’d lived her life to the full

cheerful resisting (a bright girl) the pull

of seizures becoming more frequent and stranger

a dreamy state, to her not a danger.

 

Going from vague to concrete visions,

a passage to India and an admission

free from them both, medication and rain,

back to her loved ones and fields so plain.

 

She does not believe in time as decaying,

dances down sweet hills, forever surveying,

as nurses their hands on her forehead place,

how nature her moves in mysterious ways.

 

It’s no dream-madness but phantasms, all

clear memories turning of spring and of fall.

Not charged with passion or driving her mad

but paintings, tone poems, happy and sad.

 

As if in a trance, eyes open, unseeing,

her faint, mysterious smile not fleeing.

Just once Sacks asked his Bhagawhandi

‘What is happening please can you not tell me?’

 

‘I am dying, dear Doctor’ the answer came

‘Or call it returning, it is all the same’.

Another week and she did not respond

to external stimuli or to the fond

 

remarks from staff, and then she died

or as they called it, ‘at last arrived’.

They wonder now and one asked a friend

‘Does dying mean being born again?’

 

I provide no answer, just a feeling detect

that I neither wish to indulge nor reject.

Instead I tell you now I am done with this ballad

and will go down to compose me a salad.

 

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You and I

heart fluttering

racing bubbles

up

naked tongues

in the mood

sweet, not crude

crumbling fractures one by one

 

liquid steaming

blowing bubbles

up

corners none

picking petals one by one

 

mouth watering

touching bubbles

up

creamy clouds

in the nude

sweet, not rude

breathing heavens one by one

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Without Armour

A tin soldier lies in my bed, the last man standing

On a crusade; Denying flesh and blood,

But if f I am white then he is red.

I throw down-duvet over, not to divide,

I creep under as well, it is a cold night and

The boiler is bust but we are two.

Muscles are what he claims to be,

Well, at least it is better than steel

And I still drink that smell of sweat.

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A Pagoda on outer love street

No prayers just womb,
rhythm and truth
unsweetened
alive on the unmade bed

No corners
no speakers
time is an oval
our bodies, the harps,
existing in trinity with the eternal

round pagoda

No padding
no typing
just drums
and nipples and fleshy
thorn-less desert plants

and flesh
and seeds
carried by mind
and wind
through a chink

in eternally round pagoda

Separate flesh from bone
lick your greasy fingers
explore the regions of my skull
stumble into remote
Territory
and nowhere you will find
the burning flaming mountain

Excavate my chest
and fall down in incompleteness
carved in cotton
made of memory
and wondrous astonishment
and not much else
but you will find
Love

In all its forms
and with all its
accompanying pleasures, complications,
ecstasies and frustrations,
glories and disappointments

True love, infatuation, lust,
Lost love, jealousy, enduring love… Love
The Sun Shouts

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