Sunflower Face

What grief is melting in your thoughtful eyes, You with the face of the Sun? What song of sorrow Is wafting in your tremulous lips? But perhaps This song and grief are not yours, in fact—maybe, I am passing on to you the fire in my chest, although They suit you too so well—this lament of my boat Crashing in the sea at your wharf—I did so sway The billows that it might not enter your ears-- When a solar system stops its momentum on its own, When the dry Ganga of the Milky Way burns up Like a sandy channel and writhes for water, O Sunflower Face, will you come and open your ears Like a whirlwind that tears away the roots of my vowels And consonants, which keep flowing like a mere song? Till now I haven't drawn even a little painting for you, Nor have I composed a simple light song for you-- And yet you have guarded the western gateway of kindness, And guarded this sea-wharf, where my corpse is floating, As well as the pain I have cherished like under-water fire O Sunflower Face, words of curse are indeed on the tip Of my tongue, sharp words seething with hellish torture, I shall not sprinkle these singeing words on anybody's head, Lest they should boomerang some day or other, and so Thinking, I remain dumb even now, as always. Look! These sea waves sometimes in the morning lie Without motion, their vast expanse seems like a bed-sheet, The folds will not move, they may beckon as if to tempt Us to lie on them, hearing the call we may take a close look, And if our eyes are O.K, in that stillness we shall learn The thirst of the sea, the depth of the sea, the orgasmic spell Of the sea, the cruelty of the sea, the hypnotic electric measure Of the sea. The sea's measure is the glory of the strong goddess Who saved the threefold powers that lay crying and crawling In the primordial waters of primal energy at the time of Creation. As we invoke and awaken that Sea-mother, giving her life, Installing her figure drawn on the floor, as it were, What is it that you whisper into my ears, strange! That this is the truth, that this alone is truth, do you Whisper into my ears? Touching my cheek, you Pour into my ears this electric charm—the spell Of the wounds of love and affection and sweetness, That assumes a form and pulsates here on the floor. Sunflower Face, I am not just drawing your picture In colours--but merely trying to mark a figure In my home courtyard with the fresh powder of This lengthening moonlight, just for nothing at all-- Only trying to draw a new world, just like that-- Seeking colours, singing the colours. Accept this, O Sunflower Face! Surajmukhi, the top of your head, your forehead, Your eyebrows, your eyelids that close and open The temples of your eyeballs, letting out a glow, Your eyelashes that bend down along with them, Your cheeks, bulging underneath, full of blood, Your nostrils that keep humming the scent of birds, Your lips blossoming below, your teeth in between, With a little sheen, O Sunflower Face, as I inhale The magnificence of your face, I can hear The petals of your opening flower bud, The gentle smile that breaks into an awareness, And the rays of light that radiate from it, far and wide. Is it the early soft vernal season of the rustling bosoms Is it the hard winter of the rubbing hands and palms Or is it the summer when toes begin to tinkle: Tell me, Surajmukhi, how do the pictures drawn by Your Sun turn into such strange, unexpected visions? The thoughts that arise from your honeyed navel— The cryptic magic formulas, the aphorisms, axioms, How do they become the enveloping black hole enclosed Within the very structure of this overarching universe? Is it the fertile autumnal splendour of your cool thighs Or the arrival of rains recalled by the roots of your arms Or the full spring that puts out tender shoots from head to foot Or the cycle of six seasons, stirring the mind and the body alike? Is it not so, when the figure is lit up by the sprinkling of powders Of different colours, isn't it? Are they not the fulsome bosoms Of motherhood, aren't they? Are they not the sacred weapons Carried in her sixty-four hands, aren't they? Are they not the stars, Inexhaustible in enumeration, taking the shape of truth in her breasts? Are they not sprouts of adolescent hopes thrilled at every touch? Are they not the desires arising from the flow of fresh fragrance? Clearing the yard of loose sand, making a circle, smearing it With cow dung, decking it up as holy ground, the hand of joy Picks up the bowl of powders, and sprinkling them on the ground Draws something, writes something; is it not the swing and sway Of strings of waves blossoming among the stream of colors, Isn't it? The bloody points of spears are aimed at some and Whirr fast, and blow the conch, with vigour and straight upward, Aren't they? Hearing it, unable to bear it, do they not seek shelter, Don't they? There comes the Kolam, enlivened rage, there comes An awakened world, a resurrected time, there comes, there comes Interiorized in wrath, beaming forth a tender smile, singing of colours, Wiping off the colours, entering the grove to put on grace, There comes the Sunflower Face!