Himalayan Trek
In the rhododendron lanes
my heavy flesh disintegrates
becomes empty as air.
A sliver of dry skin nailed to the door
of an emaciated past.
Silence is a balm
to your metal-slapping-metal absence.
Easy to slit the sternum
of stoic mountains with a gaze.
Difficult to stitch the gaping wound.
I want to know that I died really well.
In sunflowers we see the sun
in home, burdens
in death, preparedness
Flaky waxy rivulets of roads
lead to annatto loneliness,
Nothing else.
Country roads take me home, Denver sang.
In the Himalayas,
rice and honour seem to be one.
Honey pledges itself
to the warm thick fingers of seekers.
Nights are coolants
poured into twice withered, tired
calves, ankles, feet.
When I travel, I meet myself.
Inside lakes and in rivers,
rounded stones bathe
all life long.
Drenched in crystal clear water
three sixty five days, year after year.
My thirst, so thirsty,
that I wish to become them.
Feeling nothing but the rush of water.
How nice to be a stone.
Last Call of the Kuai’i o’ o’
it is late evening
and the last kuai’i o’ o’
is calling out to its mate from a lapalapa tree
sweet ringlets of flute-like sound
honeyed, skipping octaves
onomatopoeic as his name
he is calling for a mate who will never come
even though his song sugars
every bark, branch, twig, leaf in the forest
his call
ricochets off his searching yellow irises
echoes through empty nest cavities
last is a strange word;
stripping away a species
of existence.
engulfing the remaining one
into a dense grey mist
of broken-hearted silence.
Forgive Me, Amur
They call you the Amur leopard.
I call you the disappearing one.
Solitary like a yogi
nimble and strong
hunting like an arrow
jumping over ravines like the wind
fast as lightning
but not fast enough –
you couldn’t get away from us.
I cannot meet
your aqua gaze
without feeling like a criminal;
you’re about to join
the nine hundred species
we’ve lost.
Humanity’s worst crime.
There’s noise about saving you
conservation efforts
money pouring in
some good-hearted activists.
Only the deer can save you.
More forests, more habitat
more terrain, more deer.
We don’t have more deer
more terrain, more habitat
more forests.
I’ll carry your torch in my heart.
This yearning to not let you go
is my bed of nails.
Extinction is blood on my hands,
the tremor in my bones
as I draw my next breath.
Forgive me Amur.
Note: The Amur leopard is a leopard subspecies native to the Primorye region of southeastern Russia and northern China. It is listed as Critically Endangered on the IUCN Red List. In 2007, only 19-26 wild leopards were estimated to survive in their natural habitat. An estimated 8.7 million species exist on Earth. That’s 8.7 million more kinds of life than found on any other planet.
Author’s note
The poems in this manuscript titled Eartha – an endearment for our planet Earth, are about nature, environment, ecology, the interdependence of species, the vulnerability of plants and animals to manmade forces and the recent pandemic, that can also in part be ascribed to climate change.
I’m neither a wildlife scientist nor an authority on conservation. I need to clarify this to my readers. Hence the observations and perspectives expressed in this collection are those of an amateur naturalist and, more importantly, a poet naturalist who has had the privilege of travelling extensively in India, especially in the Himalayan region. In the course of my travels, it is the birds and trees that I witness that hold me spellbound. The majestic mountains and the charming wildflowers are undeniably memorable, but it is the birds and stunning trees I encounter that remain absolutely unforgettable. The bird guides with whom I explore forests are now friends and books and published works of experienced ecologists are constant inspirations. My own five senses have acted as sponges to absorb my unique experiences and served as the ink in my pen. That is how the poems of Eartha have been born and crafted.
While writing about various species and landscapes, I have discovered, more than anything else, how little I know of the natural world and how it works. The only comforting thought is that it is okay to be ignorant about the natural world – okay because that is how all naturalists, especially poet naturalists begin. Ignorance is the first step forward towards knowledge. What I can confess with conviction, however, is that the message of conservation and the urgency to retain the balance of ecology is overt, deliberate and heartfelt.
Our biome is threatened and poetry, along with other art forms, needs to sensitise people to the fact. Animals, birds, trees and flowers are part of our natural heritage. They provide a link to the past. More importantly, they provide an ecological perspective for the future. Through poetry, songs, folk tales, stories, paintings and plays we can reflect and enquire about our Earth. Perhaps we can learn to move away from the toxic human-centric existence in which we find ourselves. The Earth in all its wholesomeness is a message of interconnectedness and interplay of all species and all landscapes. We share a biological nexus with other life forms. It is important to coexist respectfully with other species. My poetry collection Eartha, is an effort to weave together a coherent and compelling litany of parables, prayers and perspectives that draw inspiration from the wild. It is an attempt to explore the commonalities that bind us, so that we can fulfil our responsibility to preserve what little is left of the natural world.
This collection is a humble attempt to generate awareness amongst readers to save what’s left of our planet, save in ways that only words can…with the belief that the pen is mightier than the sword, that words are powerful weapons in themselves, weapons, perhaps of the right kind.
Excerpted with permission from Eartha, Vinita Agrawal, Sahitya Akademi Publications.
