Manju Kachuli
Still creations consist of a house, no person
Ponds, no fish and trees, no birds
Within this: still creation
Perhaps a life, more than a life
And a life, even after life
Among the dancing shadows of history
One shadow, a house, a monument
Girdled by trees, water, leaves
As large as memories, in small traces of bricks
Or volumes or footsteps
When I came back to my room
I saw you through my window—
A melting light underneath the bridges
I shook the light with my hand and mind
In the midst of your sunset forest
Mute voices as firm as your closed windows
Blasted in shooting gun of your son
The bubble of leaves and trigger
In the silence of sky and stance
In the forest of shadows and clouds on earth
Silences triggered of his lever and the pieces of broken trees
Underneath our paces; splashed the turmoil into the water
And again within my heart, began to move and moan
It’s perhaps the shadow of my father.
“How can I see you?!”
As if only after when the red silences discover
(Poet’s Note: When we reached Iowa, we were taken to this place for refreshing. We saw a small house of poet Vance Bourjailey and his son hunting birds. We heard a short biography of the poet there. I found some kind of resemblance of my father in his attitude which inspired me to write this poetry which I dedicated to them)