The Blog of Laughter and Forgetting

Whisper are you listening? The leaves learning to walk with the wind Knocks the trees, returning from abroad The silence is sleeping inside And the white building floating on the grassland When the face of the sky turns feverish And the wind nurses the leaves Or a passenger from the waiting room Silently boarding in the midnight express Silence, the whisper back again Yellow from the sky And a thin white floating above, above the trees How the night embraces the grassland And how the rest of the breaths Walks along the bridge, opens the door again Like the leaves open too, and walk After the rain called the smell in And the wind across the boats Time like a wave from west to east corner And if faces are laughing while floating Few drops of dream from the wall Few rays of wind behind the curtain. Leaves are walking, yellow, and again green.

Come back, night there away smell Frangipani calling the wind As moon slips into the bush And the silent building sets in A few leaving the gate Evenings’ trace winning the glory Riverbed also dreaming As water allows the night To carry the breaths Into the island where a tone The riding horse and the dust behind Like a man’s journey in and into the sea Saw the glory? And earth Calling the roots As ocean drowning inside water Mountains rising rigid From heart, blowing with the green And grass whispering where water starts…

Chanting. But wonderfully the music is revolving, splashing within and outside. A tension that perpetuates like a trekking through forest. From far and suddenly from near a trace of light. The leaves as you may wish, keep dancing like water dances when a young river hugs rocks facing its way. I am not the audience. I am not the performer. I am the eyes of the audience and lips of the performer. You are the secret music that controls my senses. Chanting. You occupy my mind and body like air occupies a flute. And dissolved into your whims I play. You know more. I raise more. You wonder about your smell that ancient graphics absorbs and becomes a code of whisper. I can’t be chained and yet I am. I can’t be frozen so you look outside of the cloud. I can’t be compact so you secretly desire. I am not the audience. I am not the performer. I am the eyes of the audience and lips of the performer. Play relentlessly the Pipa. That calls me. Play indomitably the flute. That enervates ...

The moon was beyond the cloud Breeze on the front Lamps flared in the darkness, roaming Like the patrol man at the cross. Blue was no longer gloomy, but a call of romance Yellow was not boredom, but attraction Purple not in vain but amorous, Even white was so vivid then. Suddenly I found all the edge of sky orange! Shadow of the bridge hallucinating two amrs My songs became a small bamboo basket, Or a girl on the boat. My hand pressed in yours became warmer and tender... Your fragrance devided in dream and reality. Voice was gradually turning from 40 db to 10 db, finally whisper.. (This poem is written by Carol. I didn't find any better painting to describe my feeling) Sandip

And the wind walked in front like time. Homework was undone for long. And evening bells kept on talking to the last trace of light. It was important since a flower was about to come. This was the message from smell. Like a butterfly it goes and enters spring. Where are those books? After school, college they went to the library and the librarian went for holiday hoping that sea had not retired so far, and in Vietnam there was a small hut open for likeminded strangers. Time always travels away from it and further towards its inside and when I saw Chen, I remembered May, first. Now I remember that the librarian was calculating crosswords and suddenly he found the name Suzanne. And am sure the racks for old newspapers like always listen to raindrops, when those old papers are wet. I was travelling in a bus to university and it was clear by then. Economics is not a positive science, not even aesthetic science. So I saw Chen seated on a rock. Chen must have known that there is a relation be...

This is not a poem. This is marriage. Marriage with songs, marriage with inspiration, marriage with smell of hair, lips, it’s a marriage and still undefined. We sang together ‘Imagine’…embraced in spring. I love that delusion that bridges over troubled water. Unless that urge, that dream and that longing, what’s the value in a song? And the same way when kisses are transplanted deep inside lips not for the sake of trace, but for the sake of names uncalled for. Love is not a metaphor or feeling of us, we are the metaphor of love. After the song she pulled her ring out and it’s now in my finger. Melt, melt, and melt further…unless you can be dissolved in ether. Your body is singing in chorus with the float. And I’m seeing myself as a priest who never touched the mirror…there’s no print of my finger on the mirror, and yet mirror knows the secret. I saw everything, and I touched the distance, to make it like a string in the arrow…the more tensed the string, the better is imagination in one...

The flower grew in Venus Water was as calm as silence The door opened in birthday And showed the ocean trembling The butterfly came from the body Trees grew and opened the lips Cloud came and leaned against the eyes And twilight came and dropped on the hair And nature as clueless as a mirror Observed the melt in the dusk Where sky fathom deep into her womb To find where life starts And in intoxication I woke To walk down to the eyes That is the gate to the garden And fountain inside Lips may reward the house As chrysanthemum murmuring in bed A few drops of solitude Is still drizzling after the snow…