Impressionist Magarlod

Many phrases of this

Made, scattered and forgotten

Across my mind.

Before they go away

It's best to write-

Of the harvested paddy acres

Stubble of brown and yellow hues

Like oil paint strokes

Tugged up from the earth

Towards the sky but stopped abrupt,

Or wind bent or burnt black

By shallow airy orange flames

Like distant weary passions.

A few in these, with watered ashes

- future manure.

(My words are neither precise nor grand.)

Monkeys or langurs?

With toppled question-mark tails.

Chased by children

On a bullock cart

Trotting down the highway.

A grandma sunbathing,

Orphaned pups warm by her side.

A little girl holds out a toffee to me.

May she be protected from this world,

Strength is never enough.


The winter's sun and cold air

Unaware of each other.

Tanning my melanin darker

They hold me here.

Wheatfield with a Reaper, Vincent van Gogh* (1853 - 1890), Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, September 1889

(*one of the very few men who led me here.)