Volume 1 : Issue 2
ISSN: 2454-9495
Italian Prayer
How does one accustomed to the cold candour of stones
bend one’s knee in reverence to the opulence of marble?
How does one sustain the journey from Konarka to St Peter’s,
from Lingaraja to Santa Maria del Fiore, from the temple
of Jagannatha to the basilica of San Marco?
It is easier to let the mind auto-focus when set in poverty,
pain and austerity to catch a glimpse of divinity;
crying out for help, the public prayer of the devotee,
without any signs saying ‘Silence’ or ‘For Private Prayers Only’.
Teach me how to find myself in these palaces of art,
that I may learn to love and suffer with all my heart.
Teach me how not to be distracted by these treasures,
the tapestry of mosaics, paintings, and sculptures,
by Michelangelo, Botticelli, Raphael,
Tintoretto, Leonardo da Vinci, Caravaggio.
Teach me how to empty my desires in this chiesa d’oro,
to pray in a corner gilded with the wealth of this world.
Teach me to light a steady candle in the sanctum of this cathedral,
rein in my wayward senses and learn to pray in this temple.
The Music Makers
For the makers of musical instruments
in Markneukirchen, Germany
Sparkling in the sun after a passing shower,
this jewel of a town cradled in the arms of a rainbow
smiling with the fortitude of evergreens in winter
carved in its coat of arms – a left-facing lion,
double-tailed, displaying an aggressive tongue –
greets us as we enter.
The cobbled streets sing with church bells.
The maker of violin-bows is celebrating
his son’s christening. By thirteen he was performing
in church, working for the family business,
learning his craft, practising his art.
Music flows in his veins carrying the secret
of shaping wood for a new string –
an heirloom passed down generations, preserving
the gift of ornamenting bows with gold and silver.
In the main church, the wedding ceremony
of the daughter of a family of flugelhorn makers
with the son of the trumpet maker spills into the street –
words and music rise together casting spells in the light.
Among the families that fled persecution
four centuries ago, these magicians of sound
survived, settled in a valley of dreams –
the makers of the finest violins, cellos, violas,
trombones, trumpets, tubas and guitars –
transforming their lives, endowing ours.
London Eye
Rising up the arc to the zenith,
twice as fast as a tortoise sprinting,
we move in a transparent capsule
oblivious of vertigo, surveying
the ancient city’s surprised sprawl.
The river passes by naming each building,
old and new, along the embankment.
Glass, steel and concrete facades
shape the landscape, reflecting
the will of man. Yet transcending
the real, dreams rise ghostlike
in the mist of history, announcing
the arrival of the new Londoners,
survivors and creators sharing
in their different languages
forgotten stories. Earth and sky
hold on to their secrets, memories
strong enough to bear suffering,
pain flowering like this metropolis,
shadow more real than the body.
At the end of my journey I step out
of the goldfish bowl, get blown
away on a wonderful gust of desire,
swept up high, invisible, soaring,
looking down on centuries of struggle,
life hanging on a chance, trusting
to be taken home to that mighty heart beating.