The transition
to when it is
from wanted to be
is just that: never stilled

there is no port, no exit gate
no hallway ended onto a sofa home
gentle soft furry teddy bear like arrival: none

there is much convincing
petting, and sensualizing
pep, hype, and bravado

noise then is a musky mist
edging the breathtaking vista
at the edge of a cliff

or engulfing the entrance
onto a path, into a journey
into a metaphor of must demyst

into that soothing to trance
into life
in and to

—aninasuri’24

Not each interruption of movement
is a willful act onto trajectory or orbit
while with each willful act
comes an altering of movement

as an eruption of consciousness
unaware of every consequence
of the interruption caused by the act

and yet is dizziness a material affect?
is dizziness that sensation of movement
moments following desisting swirl of twist

in fiber, liquid and gas:
in muscle, ear and lung dizziness waving,
radiating intensifying attenuating
through linearized enveloping of whirling:

take a circle and spin a sinusoidal cycle fading
to peak, sustain, release
and slowly decay

Ah, if you may,
be that spinning child
twirling on this summer’s day.

                            —animasuri’24

The rain, the wind, the sun, the light
if words not evoking precipitated distancing,
radiating erosions of boundaries

not if by a consciousness tempered
and yet by evocation condensing
walls of awareness embraced dissolving

I recall I can choose to let them cascade
let them trickle let them demand let them cloud, let them form judgements as forecasts

resulting in photosynthesis
of iterations of the same umbilicals
to shelter, shelter, a shelter: umbra

or let those I label, those I narrate
be out there be in here
be part of be joining: engulfing be coming

trickling storms transmit twinkles
dropping reflections, joints of air ‘n’ soil
knees of pain as calls to kneel and press on

I weather in wee wind rings of rain
together training shadows and rays of Sun
bathing a son from shadowy corners into reign

I inhabit:
I open positive space
I am heathen

                         —animasuri’24

In deed we do
undoubtably undoubtedly
indubitably: it is what was done

in dubiousness, a subdued tautology
an act kept dark, its whisper muffled
any accompaniment of talk: muted

transparency is demanded of intelligence
not of anything else:
so act, don’t think

of signals related, if process debated across
media, time, space:
information as dark matter

distracting attention to light, by light
by glitter, by color, by bling, by might
cushioning back alley dealings: egos only

corridor connections
and bathroom warnings
suggesting: wash off guilt

redistribution of gains constraining chains
to access, to cognition related, to thought automated
presumed delegated: pure self

act managed, while managing acts
mixed into the toxic toner
of the peaceful printing press: tacit mess

We have agency, no nonsense
look here, go there, do that:
we have

we have: our zippers up.

—animasuri’24

Because because is such a quaint word
by reason of interest being
but a table cloth
for dinners with friends at philosophy circles

Hence book fixations in price and binding
tickle nostrils of leather, stitching,
green cloth and paper glue
training trusted upon by memories draining

There lies a book of laughter on mid-summer
as one’s waking is an other’s night’s dream of Walcott
and poetic note taking
of said non-seasons and the likes

gently hearing that chain-link fence
as a museum ornament around the gathering
of being on the fence, fencing off advances,
fancy a drink in polite company

Circles drain
the likes of seasoned polite company
into frantically composed collecting
points of common interest, just because

just by reason books are fixed until mended.

                           —animasuri’24

Triggers

Dr.WSA. (2024, June 21). fyi because you seemed to be … online: email. And, thank you.

M.C. (2024, June 21). The price isn’t right. Fixing books’ prices, Michael Rosen’s illustrators, J. R. Ackerley’s prize. Online: Times Literary Supplement (TLS). https://www.the-tls.co.uk/regular-features/nb/the-price-isnt-right/ 

When
they who came
before me, and you, and we,
immersed the temple,

centered
in our town’s square,
with thousands of years
told as eagle-eyed eons

of culture
and our human
utterances and acts,

with there

the executions
against
its outer northern wall:
blue

a birth
below
its southern colored stained glass:
red

with

its rebuilt
after
the great fire:
green

and

then again
following
the dreadful invasion:
indigo

there

might be
a yellowing narrative
or two

I or you could distill in stillness, white

in an expansive sense,
from its walls and artifacts
and curved brown whisper-walls.

However,

it has remained eerily quiet,
not one grayish word,
yet to reply us

in vocalizations
of English, French,
caramel Cantonese,
or x, y or z.

Neither

the ant colony
under
its thousand years old tree

nor
the tree
have spoken to us

nor
the decaying
lady’s slipper

stuck
beneath that thick crusty root.

And yet, and yet,

stories
sprout and stream
as richly colored

as Blue Tango
or Hawaiian Hibiscus
into our brain
when we simply

swirl our eyes
listening across this scene
where silences

became

artifice and art
as a loud landscape
of paused hush

—animasuri’23

Thank you, Ms. Borg, for bringing silence, paused in between and at endings prolonged.