[for Abhi and Arjun, who, this, can no longer see...]
Little yellow flowers border the introspecting brown iron fence.
Little pinks join them; to witness the crawling snakes, day a day, night a night.
I have no words to say, no speak to thought,
To capture this sleeping elephant rock,
This great spectacle
Seeming, in its bliss stupor to,
Cling on to another elephant peak;
Which in turn to an other,
And an other, settling to swim.
Suddenly, hidden by plumes of coconuts,
mangoes, and such other valley thriving crop…
Oy. paddy and sugar cane too?!
Its hot. A beary hay silo passes by.
Yup, eating his way through grass,
and probably children’s mothers in their desperate hopes to teach her children more words, to keep them from a brawling troll.
Words. words. words.
“Words are all I have, to take your heart away”
Really?
I cannot describe this land
In ease wit this Anglo Germanic tongue
As easily as once I did with the rivulets of Europa;
(with this same orange pencil, same white book)
I know I cannot hope to capture the lime fluorescent greenness of the juvenile paddy a pass;
There is something beyond in this stark bright illuminating suns rays playing hide ‘n seek with trainly windows
(that which has obfuscated logic thus far, and stings my curiosity.)
Yes, true.
But mean that, that I am structured of
phones, syns, and morphs?
["kvool draynks... vaateir..."
Ha! Describe that.]
The tog is almost empty.
And we soon pass the last terra firmatic elephant.
Hey! Suddenly it appears that the three (los tres)
are desperate in support of the drowning un.
Oi oi oi…
(Framed in aweificance by thick white plumes of cotton soft clods, and the oceany blue sky.
Where’s the jellyfish now?)
Hark! What is that which burns?
But wait, my orange friend,
Was that my tongue, or an other, I saw?
Am I already in embrace of my linguistic claw?
Namaskaram Kerala!
As I breathe into Kanjikode,
Where is my welcoming monsoon queen’s klem?
The sun just still shines…
(Tchaaayeee… Tchai tchayeee)
And so, I enter my region state,
A familiarity no doubt, they say,
Configured by the language mine.
Nay.
You jest.
For my land is mine for its greenness,
The countless chlorophylls that breathe air in my state,
And for its earth,
That gives rise to them green.
My land is mine for its water,
Flowing health from the mountains of blue dreams,
Illuminating, strengthening, and killing.
My land is mine for the butterfly’s smile,
For the coconut silhouettes in brown paddy aquadigms,
For the krrr krrrs of Cicadas singing at night,
For these mountains like elephants,
For elephants like loving mountains,
For the people, the thought,
For love,
In short, in a coconut shell,
For this lands energy.
["Tweet tweet, tweet tweet... Es em esss..." Palakkad Jn...]
How can you say it is for the langue?
You call that intellect?
Or is that insolence?
[and is this a discourse of knowing, or desperation? or of hate?]
A. K. Hamza sells chips, chips, more chips,
and of course, halwa, halwa, halwa…
(among other dirty imperialising bites…)
Kakas bite water drops off dripping manual taps,
And people smile on talking, ordering.
I might be hugged by the sweet melody of mine tongue,
Now enveloping like the first monsoon rains…
(“Kerala, Kerala, Kerala lottery tické, pooja tické, win-win lottery…”)
And political dialogues in seats a couple front
may enigmatically critique in powerful speaks…
But did the langue come first, or first the chicken?
I think the chicken;
(and that the langueists should get a life)
Black pipe on a yellow balustrade,
Carries the life of water,
As our snake slowly etches forward
Inscribing change in our universe.
And in my realm now, as slowly as this train moves,
I shall begin to settle to other affections of my selv
My addiction of the word, now satisfied.
Oh A and A for whom I this dedicate,
May love be with you,
And let this land’s energy too.
Drip drip drip drip
Coconut thatches that build this energy’s intellectocracy, fairocracy,
And small boys a playing cricket,
Whilst woman bent over love’s labour ploughing nature,
Red beats promising exercise,
Whilst the sun shine, this train and rivulets move,
the wind caressing my hair…
Peace out.
- neo garfield
