By
Anjana Basu
EARTH BULL
The bull has a slow fire at its heart
a coiled red anger that spreads its heath
catlike in sudden rushes
fake pounces all the time building
to a determined blaze that bursts out
explodes in a bucking frenzy
taking rider and trappings unawares
the rider squirms and grapples
to save his seat and life
from trampling hoofs on that twisting sea
bucking arch of living rage
the bull dimly senses the distress
but is lost in the song of blood and fire
that builds and builds
till it roars in its head
and nothing else matters
but to shake off that heat
and leech the thing which clings
with its irritating tickle of hands and heels
GOLDEN SKINNED GREEN
Humidity. Bengal is green lush and sprawling. In the monsoons the grey
clouds press low over the straw roofs of the green land, sealing in
the damp heat. Bengal breeds fungus, fever and fermentation. All over the
country, its women are a byword. Every man wants a Bengali woman for at least five minutes. Golden skinned against all that wet green. Sheikhs have been known to steal Bengali women and hide them in deep in their harems beneath their bales of silk and cinnamon. All over India they talk Bengali women in a hiss behind the palms of their hands.
There is a man who comes and sits and numbers all my bones. His
fingers trace my wrist. Cool, he sighs, your body is so cool. Cool, damp
Bengali skin, golden against the damp green leaves. A golden skinned goddess in the glade? I can’t tell what he sees. The mother goddess in Bengal is golden skinned but no goddess drapes herself in green. Green is too complex for any goddess to wear. Imagine a golden woman walking among the gold green leaves with a grey sky overhead, the dark light deepening both green and gold.
The man I love has grey eyes that turn all green to grey. Everything
he sees is gold or grey. Under grey skies in a grey garden, his eyes
centre on a golden woman.
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