“every ecology depends on death”
cotyledons green to their task
of rising into trees, unruffled by captions
in a town in India a driver races
a bus-load of children through a gauntlet
of gunmen’s fire and seizes life
the heart can be a chalice
moss-velvet as the anther-d
pyramid of an eight-petal-d lotus
or a bloodletting shard
hewn off the planet with a saber
roar-voiced and petrifying;
it may take a long while to sand and
shore a spindrift, for thirsting terrain
to calypso with orchard wine
primeval is hope, oiled to a talent of stone
like this rain-sewn cloud charming
the old bakul by the well into bloom
so, we heft the spade, primitively
till and garner
re-stoke the ailing stove.
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Statues and the Colonised Mind
Statues do many things. They tell or repress a story about the past. They tell us about ourselves. They make us feel uneasy or can inspire. Scenes of sculptural epiphanies and distress, as well as, defiance, acknowledge that engaging with statues is not always easy or enjoyable.
