Monday, 1 June 2009

On a dream

Dip your hand into paint, and draw out your dream
A meagre yellow taint on a dripping wet screen.
Play out your music like a psychedelic film-
A strain, joyous or melancholic, of a thoughtless whim.

Slowly, painstakingly, carve it, like an idol of Siva.
Mould it, but hold it, and don’t let it flutter away.
Trap it, arrest it, and pin it on paper today.

Sing until, magic imbued, the metal rings with power
And it clangs and it clatters into a momentous spiritual hour.
As the fires leap into the shape of that wisp of a dream,
And the paint is splashed brightly onto an imageless screen.

Ideas pour into coffee mugs and rustic libraries
And grow around them, gardens and tangible sceneries
Of darkness and happiness and moments of solace,
And the thoughts idle, and with the ocean plays.

Cluttered minds relax on huge-pillowed settees
And await an idea to wash in with the breeze.

(I prefer not to name this one)

I am a maker of coins.
My trade specialty is in gold.
I weld them and shape them
In perfect spheres of lustrous metal.

And I traversed the streets
With pride on my sleeve,
A slight ego glowing around me.

And one day, I met a Buddha
Who in silent speculation
Made gold out of thin air.
The Alchemist had it easy, I thought,
And all the fame.
And then I saw the
Veins of contemplation
Glitter through his gold,

And what I had made seemed mere forgery.
And I was no more unique.
Humbled I stood,
And I cannot promise to stop forging
But I shall attempt to
Set out on a soul-search
And maybe one day
I shall design
Pure Gold
Out of