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Wilderness is also the Wayside - Poem

I remember reading somewhere that not a square kilometer exists in the world now where human trace isn't present. But as this was taking place, life too adapted to live in the habitats of our making. It has learnt to permeate it in so many ways, even into our bleak urban-scapes. Richard Powers said that "if you allow for kinship then the question of 'you' becomes permeable". In this fragmented age, how do we reimagine 'ourselves' in relationship with the soil, sky, leaves and birds? What connect and purpose could life around us offer in these times - spiritually? Could they be agents of our own inner transformation? Perhaps some of this could start with being profoundly observant in our daily lives. Rachel Carson spoke of wonder as a 'radical state of mind'. Maybe wonder and watchfulness are powerful tools of community change. How do lives sharing our immediate spaces and surroundings braid our own? How do they invade or interweave our contexts? What could they be saying? This poem ponders some of these enquiries.

 Wilderness is also the Wayside

 Wilderness is also the wayside,
gap in concrete and fissure on wall,
a missing block of pavement
where a Peepal seedling searches depth-
sprouts dissent.
It shouts, "Straight lines, smooth edges - a shortcoming of imagination "
It bends, warps, knots and fills sidewalk.
The defiance of rain trickle and devil's thorn to asphalt.
Its barbed nutlets pricking rubber and skin, and hitching lifts.
The park-bench toad's croak in reverie, an affirmation perhaps?
There is enough here to watch, and question and wonder.
To reconcile by new metaphors.
Stained and swept mongoose fur,
not plucked from paintbrushes.
Too bad it didn't know the traffic rules.
Under the drainpipe where sand is soft
the garden lizard buries her eggs.
The Giant snails devour election posters
and leave their manifesto
of mucus trails.
In them can be found remedy
to distance - a great simulation - which dulls resolve and blurs connection.
The querying tendrils of passion vine,
scaling a compound wall,
and the mud dauber's claywork
on my old shoe,
are chinks on this dread
of foisted 'dailiness',
through which we'd gladly
join these beings
in their varied resistance. 


-M.Yuvan


Comments

  1. Unknown1 June 2021 at 01:54

    absolutely resonant with daily urban observations and beautifully recorded

    ReplyDelete

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