Kavi (Poet) Daedlus and Pen Virginia

? Anand Bose


Kavi (Poet) Daedlus and Pen Virginia


The aesthetic event is something as evident, as immediate, as
indefinable as love, the taste of fruit, of water. We feel poetry as we
feel the closeness of a woman, or as we feel a mountain or a bay. If we
feel it immediately, why dilute it with other words, which no doubt
will be weaker than our feelings?
-- Lecture entitled "Poetry," 1977 Sir. Jorge Louis
Borges


"Beauty being light from another world." James Joyce

"Life is not a series of gig lamps arranged symmetrically" Virginia
Wolf

If-"art aspires to the condition of music". Walter Pater

Saint Blake of neither World

The winged fairy auguring across the breathing ghost is
revelry of colour being a shade of white. Motion is fluid as light
falling in a crystal. There she is, as a dancing crescent with arched
flutes of feet poised and flowing in a whirlwind.
There's an angel of white in the monument of the devil. Memory is
immortal as traces of earlier breaths, leaving the chance to be veins.
If there's a heart, it's opening to its colours!
To be wondering is how? Being much of body and untying Narcissus.
Solitude is a grain of being fathoms'; the abyss body is cliff looking
and clef leaving, being hardly as the left!


Room-mooR

On the platform with the sowing of first seeds of light, granite was in
d?cor with bird droppings of ages, stuck as longings of some idyll
eternity, droppings, mirroring themselves into a vista of pattern,
whales of shit fallen as the dirge, reaping the need to stay alive as
the abstract. There's an urgent need to bend a knee and fall into a
museum and genuflect.

Flame of the Forest (Gulmohar Tree)

The flame of the forest is a falling petal, red oozing with lit sun,
showering a wish, a suggestion of each tip to be flaming love. The bed
is a glowing mound of petals, foaming cycles, and glowing fountains
embracing blossom filings.


Is love a feeling living through the air? Ethereal is
charming, magnetic is the mating of the unlike; charge is distilled
into an essence, the bliss to life. Is love a feeling? If life is
living, there's hardly any left.

Still life

Shutters are still tight; he's late as usual. Puff a ring like Aladdin.
The parapet is standing still. No! Its not! Millions of feathers are on
it- the concrete, growing delirium, lighting silver and fading into a
firmament of some unknown terrain. They are there as though trapped to
a dream wanting the dreamers to touch them, to talk to them, to fondle
them. Eternity is a trap of still objects. Objects talk of eternity as
all! Is there's maverick with the palm of magic and conical fingers
wanting to translate them into a universe where they would be valued?
How do these things get there? The first showers bring them there.
(Eyals) or gnats swarm around places seeking the refuge of light. The
40+Watts bulb has stilled into an abstract. Are they for museums to be
an awakening? In a few moments a broom would be on them and away they
go as dust of the earth, crumbling as sewage and being reborn with ease
as soil renewing. The air that we breathe is free: the air we don't
breathe is freer.

Glockenspiel.

There's a flickering movement on the wall. Rhythm is
millipedes crawling atop each other, nuzzling oeuvres of bodies in
baritones, oozing touch. Ballet is driving desire, exploding centuries
of epics, epics inscribed on bodies, of centuries in seconds; wondering
is why? When? Where? And for! Still dancing raw, tips touching
surfaces, feeling of very pore, frolicking orifices, laughing lithe,
tasting the earth as afflatus, exploding the myth of pomegranates,
seeking, searching, sucking, swallowing, the finale is never in end and
never beginning.


It was an awakening before the age of the season. The age or
its reason had its flavour, the wildness of aroma. The fruit was being
guided as subtle as the sharpening of knife that gleams the origin. It
was happening all over as the within, the celebration of every gland
awakening to an ode of joy. She was filling the soul of its experience
of knowing. The flowing of literature was part of her as the ages, the
breaking out of the urn, the tearing of the folds, their detachment,
their joy of being touched as poetry of initiation. Within seconds, it
was flowing, all of it, leaving me puzzled, frightened, a feeling of
having lost everything, there's wolf of a smile of, her lips leaving
the veiled smile of impetuous crust.