Saga Of The Weaver Bird & The Acacia Tree Poem by Seema joglekar

The landscape -ascending azimuth, the azure sky lifts
The encircling curtains, of blue veil of vertigo,
Like a green floral skirt, fine open grass spreads in tribute, below,
In between stands the flat-topped Acacia tree
At an impasse with a giant cumulous cloud,
Bends and takes a bow.

In his benevolent splendour, like Moses on Mount Sinai,
Acquitted for withstanding the Biblical Deluge,
He stood like a stoic monk limbs outstretched,
Inviting in this otherwise arid, scrubby, dryland.
Globular heads on elongated spikes, soft fuzzy of golden appearance,
In the desert heat, he protrudes like one big tear of God’s compassion,
A pleasant land, but if one’s humor is mournful-
Wind swept with lonely dunes deserted ponds& barren moors.
Sullen wind awakes, rescued by the first rays of morning sun
Shrine to nature’s impetuosity, submitting to earthly blasphemy,
Storms, Droughts, floods, forgiven by spring’s consecration,
Vagaries of your various moods & his seasons.

Sun hauls to his full size, as the flowers reflect his exuberance
Explode into a golden yellow haze of fluffy inflorescence,
Murmurous with bees, playing the lute daring a tune to melody,
All are invited to the banquet, at the heart of the celestial fire tree,
Your flames reach earth, showered on the ground at your feet,
Like a vibrant yellow yoga-mat.

Your shapes and shades change, wooed by the simmering heat
Frail birds, dainty bees, streaming beasts
Flock for the Shiatsu in the noon heat
Wouldn’t call it love at first sight
Maybe destined here -drawn to take the bite
.
At places your limbs stand knotted,
Where honey-pots brew & tiny nests snuggle,
Drugged on morning dew birds sing your glory
Mesmerized-lose themselves, bleed on your thorns sinisterly.

In the distant mirage, seen as a lingering crucifix on the horizon,
All creatures flock, trampling distances,
Following what star, Wander here for an ablution?
Yet he stands there rich- muscle, sinew, Fangs &claws- a bargain of reserved restrain
A shibboleth to answers more divine, embroiled in sharp thorns

Birds of all plumage pay you their homage,
But none like the weaver bird that deigns to hang her nest,
Like bare laundry in the courtyard, wrung out of yesterday’s sweat & tears,
No wonder there is too much of callous valor &insinuating diapers strewn out in this world.

A builder, a pilgrim, nature’s architect pre-eminent,
Interwoven in grass, coir, & fibers, sets paradigms in housekeeping,
Engineering marvels, manovered to keep the snakes out,
What heavenly power has bestowed your wee little body with this art?

Aerial displays, courtship dances, muted threat displays infullplumage,
With Call songs that echo and resonate, up and beyond the wilderness
In the creases of your hand, searches for her destiny's latitude,
For shelter against the wind & rain, devises ways to pay her gratitude.

Of all those enjoying your patronage,
Only she dares to nest closest in your Venus flytrap,
When the nest quivers at the lion’s roar in the night
Or the stampede of wild bulls, she moves closer in your embrace.

In your deliriums when your arms smother her in retribution
She bleeds tears, bearing the agony under scathed skin.
Lashing at the torrents & the outrage of the wild storms
In your frenzy, leave her gasping at the gashes on her body

Hope is a good thing &no good thing ever dies,
As a shiny black weaver bird flits across the skies
A breast of stunning crimson, like a precious ruby
that burnt in the sunlight.

Sings; - Can I move in & hang in your abode,
Don't you warn me away with your thorny fold,
All your refutes are dossed in night dew,
For this stubborn integrity am I drawn to you
,
Let me swing by your arms &
Drink the Sun,
And hang by a thread in your heaven,
O Glorious Acacia Tree! Can I nest in your bosom?


X-x-X
25 September-2009
Seema. Joglekar