A poem for Kim ki-duk's Spring,Summer, Fall,Winter...and Spring

A stone tied to

The doors with demon stars

Open on the waters

Time freezes and unfreezes

The boats coming and going

Until there is walking on the waters

A stone tied to

A calmed violence with moving letters

Curved and uncurved

A vigil on the water

For both man and his son

How many grief cycles

The stone tied to?

Fire on the water and the little child

Weeping at the edge of the cavern

Mother died there

Faceless

Stone tied too

One does not show faces in these waters

There are letters on

Letters perspiring and crumbling

And yet persisting in circles

Will anything ever come to pass here?

The body folds inside

The gaze atop the hill

At long last

Fixes the landscape in one

One day the demon doors will crumble on the boat

A stone tied to...

Brim

They had left the place alone

Love alone

Alone they had left the place

Place alone

He had placed his hand on her forehead

Fore alone

Alone hand

There were pawns in her head

Not alone

To love

To place

Chancing

Houses old and new

Lots to differ

The only worth while

The new with a roof

Leaving room to chance

The Outside

The webs settled down and opened their tentacles in the dark, drying the tears in the

process. When they evaporated, I got into my own. I was sitting in a place where two

circles of light had intersected. And yet, the torso was dark...darker still. I belonged to

both the circles, but perhaps to none. ‘One always finds one's sack in the end’,

someone had whispered into my ears long back. Did I love him or was I the only one

and all the rest, a figment, never to be the same again? Perhaps there was a sack for

me too, in a third circle of light, yet to be seen. But was I not prohibited to enter a third

circle? What was mine was this rigmarole of inside and outside. No, I was not even the

partition. The two circles had intersected clearly. I felt as if I could change forms and

become one and all...all this and all that. And all of a sudden, I felt as if I was lifted into

thin air like the half-empty syllables of some inane murmur.

He had picked up his sack from the intersection of the two circles of light. A soggy

impression of the torso still remained. Faint were the footfalls and he moved out of the

two circles, into a third, intractably dark. Could there be tears in the dark? Somebody

had said to him that tears were nothing but 'liquefied brain'. Did he ever love that

person? A spider slipped through the mouth of the sack, as if to silence it!

[A Text written for a set of photographs by Swapan Nayak ]

I saw a window last night in my dream. The same from which Deleuze had jumped to his death. Does the window remember him still?

Faceless

How people like to laugh

Point to a point and laugh

Face to face, face on face

And laugh.

I only create a face

Where all laughs can be contained

They think themselves out of laughter

I am the thought in their laughter

I laugh too in their laughter

Like Yorick's skull

I am no melancholy jester

But I will never stop ridiculing myself