Frigid Kiss Tears in Virgin's Breath - Kamalendu Nath (management books to read .txt) 📗

as a bird, without care;
until caught in a game of dare -

coalescing in drops - towards ground,
from lost freedom in newly found
ordered neighbors to droplets round -

next be in fluid motion or still
as neighborly symmetry was to fill,
where some freedom existed still.

But with loss of that clear sight
now parked all motion, pretty tight,
all transparency turned to white.

In winter’s heart these white guards flow;
from freedom’s loss, not a freedom blow
but for individuals, a motion slow.

Even within this freedom loss
underlies a restricted cause
from snow to ice in glazing gloss.

Marked motion they were to know -
as in vapor but none in snow;
which lays in between water’s tow.

Least bit makes the iceberg float;
bloated corpses in a castle moat -
shouldering castle’s freedom afloat.

17. Shouldered Black Trash Bag

Laden with dead weight
dripping from my heart, freezing feet;
lifting up those lead weights – snowshoes;
crushing forehead veins; my lungs begging for air
as the shoulder weighed down by the black trash-bag

…

Surrounded by bent thoughts
rooted in deep snow mounds, chokes
my advance, my apprehensions so rudely…
the frozen cadaver, a lost-blossom by the shack
that I’d scoop up before possible desecration bent pets -

Two days back: breaking walk,
one pet leaps barking, followed by the
other; just behind our log home, on wood’s edge
that greets us in double trouble mind of a young bard
owl, sitting on a lower branch, who wouldn’t shift even in barks.

I have seen them before,
I’ve heard their hoot stir the forest floor,
but never so low: holding out a wing – unfurled, stiff -
might end up in grief if can’t hunt in these wintry blast nights…
The only Wildlife Rehabilitator was out-of-state, this Sunday evening:

“If you can corral… cage it…
I will be back tomorrow… let me know

…”
We kept an eye where it was sitting. After long, it was
on an upper branch, had not escaped, beyond goodwill’s reach
of our desperation - to be of help – but not in a shouldered trash-bag…

First thing next morning - we
see no sign of the one signed in for rescue,
I cover the ground around - trample on snowshoes.
Was it seeking help? What brought it behind our nest?
Hooter’s hoot was quiet and the ones, cared most, couldn’t hoot.

It came as a great relief -
injury mustn’t be that great; in its
absence lay assurance that it might have flown
off. Readied for Monday evening’s next wintry storm…
In the morn, it was time to shovel what the plough had left behind.

Beholden was I in shock,
cocooned in a corner by the wood-shack, it lay
frozen; as if failing help that it’d desperately sought
and none of us finding a medium or even a thread in common
which in reflection, juxtaposed help-helplessness with hope-hopelessness…

In gusty freezing cold,
the snowshoes keeps sinking well below.
Lifting my foot becomes a chore for me - not young.
Fighting through for navigation, steering skipped heartbeats,
I try to seek a way, away from harms way, hoping beyond all hopes

that it will unfurl, as I gently
lay it by a tall hemlock trunk on its slanting
snow bank, all white, with hopes that perhaps it will
unfold, beside; blanking the photo I’d taken - the left wing
held out stiff, same as the first day, immobile, over the ‘barks’…

Cost me an hour and half for
a snow-less road of ten minutes or so.
Exhausted in my body, in my soul – that which
lay behind - it has been one of the longest walks I’d
taken… stamped by a half-closed eye, the memory of that evening.

Less weight did I carry back on
my freed shoulder, at end of that journey
of burdened thoughts of a different outcome next time,
if there be one, unlike unburdened burden on cold-white for
good, crashing my heart; it wouldn’t be a shouldered trash-bag.

18. Pear Shapes

As in the making of an upcoming hale storm
clouds gathering amidst still air, in an ominous form;
these faces in shock - makes one wonder what awaits -
must lie a pear somewhere, hidden in these grieving crates.

She stood stone-faced, without a clue - whether angry or sad,
just wanted me out; I’d failed her trust

and that of my dad;
with no tears trickling down, she’d call me an ingrate -
must lie hidden a pear somewhere, in this frozen crate.

Frustrations in the second, held no room for pity,
despite the long bonds we’d treaded; lacked sympathy;
I could take her scorn but not all those burning hate

-
must lie hidden a pear somewhere, even in this crate.

The third face was that of mine greeting her long dead;
limp as reed lay her body, wrapped in white, on bed;
whether I’d failed her

remains a point of debate -
must lie hidden a pear somewhere in this clumsy crate.

With forebodings the sky grow dark - the weighing clouds
breaks down in crackling thunder-borne sounds, so very loud;
outpours from floodgates - spherical, narrow tip shapes -
once freed they start rolling out those open crates.

The face I’d known dry from birth, now but glistened wet;
the birthing face bellowed at me as frustrations set.
The third face, that of mine, stayed dry through loss so great -
crying within - beloved shroud! – but for the granite crate

?

19. When the Power Goes Out

(Published in The Vermont Literary Review; vol XI, 2009)
The slim, non-undulating, unwavering
Flames - perfectly stationary, crowning these
Seldom-used candle wicks - casting just enough
Luminous, hinders my eyes casual navigation of a
Read or the errant penny rolled dead underneath;
Blocking time-flow in its promise run; instead
Casting a seed of inaction, of dissatisfaction, of
Frustration, a reminder
Of a dependent living in the
Deep woods or not, as a hostage of
Traversing electrons,
Permeating life’s
Cogs, without which
There’s no whirring – smooth or not; keeping pace
With other cogwheels; dismissing instead the
Chimes of the Grandfather clock.

Whether it be an hour or two, or longer -
Entrenched in a restless storm or disquiet calm;
The hapless time falling from its
Stilt, in a refusal to its
Standard gate, stretching in unusual
Melancholy, hiding behind them brazen stormy state.

And then as suddenly - the crick, the chirp, the
Humm…; dims unexpectedly the glowing
Wicks in a return of the electron’s
Zeal, the Grandfather clock once again falls
in step, unfurling life’s promised routines,
frustrating in passing, the Nature’s grin, momentarily.

20. Warmth

Seeking body heat - cold feet;
as she snuggles next to his
bare skin, touching both their limbs
filling in eternal warmth:
a formulation of a
satiation in stealing
love borne frothing waves, loving -
as in den of huddled litters
glued on swollen mother’s teats,
sharing body heats, sharing…

The norm - warmth that is – a norm for
animals – social.
This need of touch:
cuddle, huddle, fuse as one,
dissolve in each others warmth -
as a body mass - dissolve
in a paradigm of lost
dreams; uncapping desire -
uncapping an earth sink-hole and
drinking in unrestrained pleasure of belonging.

21. Cry Night’s Womb

Floated in -
riding night’s waves; a howling. Sad yelp -
cracking ajar sleep’s heavy door. We
lay huddled in bed-womb, bathed in joy -
rubbing feet, sleeping couple – we shared
The Cry!

Harking -
neutered dogs’ bark faded our dreams -
February 5th, Saturday night sometimes;
yelp and howl rising in night’s womb,
again and again; and then frustration fading afar -
Night’s Cry!

Desperation -
perhaps a red fox (would wander on 8th night street):
next day’s snowy-bloody spots on trail displayed
life yolk’s primal scream drained womb, unlike us -
aged, impotent, - sleep’s brush-stroke smudged
Silent Cry!






- Cowering the Spring time
New Hampshire winter persists
Ice down Virgin’s Breath –

The
Last Two Months

22. March on March

“Look out, look out,” she erupted at dinner’s end -
carefully I gaze out from side-door and face specters
stand
just under the bird-feeder chain. And appeared a
second - a third and more, came out six in all out that
way
as ghosts from wood-send; one emerged with antler
standing farther in; all stood still, except for
her.
She was facing our house with head held high, as if she
weighed questions floating in their silence,
simply…

…I see faces prancing along town roads in joy.
More and more children fling in the Nature
toys!
…It was the night before that spring was to arrive,
“Can you hear?” she had inquired in my sleeping
strive.
Floated in Bard owl hoots through the window
sealed; and I felt things aren’t as they were
before.
…These wild turkeys visiting the birdseed spread -
sometimes morn or past noon, thirteen of them