Object lesson: two & Object lesson: four
by Sampurna Chattarji
[ poetry - january 05 ]
Object lesson: two
"I ride my bicycle to ride my bicycle."
- Zen proverb
I park you on my palm,
testing you for posture (and pedals -
they really work). Velocipede of wire,
your red and silver symmetries make
centuries of tinkering seem trivial. You
are a miniature of perfection, you scorn
your previous selves, their names creak
ing like their movements. You do not
see the poetry of Celerife and
Draisinne, the rough humour
of the boneshaker
the hobbyhorse the
highwheeler trundling down towards
you, so neat in your
sprocket and chain.
You do not care that
a French count a German baron
a Scottish blacksmith a Parisian carriage
maker and a stolid Englishman saw you
in their dreams. And as for being (maybe)
a doodle in a certain Italian's notebook, the
name da Vinci doesn't ring a bell. Your
past is monumentally incidental. You
are all here, now, parked on my
palm, content with yourself
as a tiny replica of you.
Object lesson: four
"The tongue like a sharp knife... kills without drawing blood." - Buddha
Sharp as a blade of thought
you slide
out of your sheath.
Your forward-curving form
Greek to me, or Sanskrit.
They tell me
every notch is meaningful
cow track, red finger, moon.
Clitoris.
A clit on a slit of metal
potent in the hand of a man.
A short man, like the blade.
Khukuri, badge of the brave little Gurkha man,
breathsmoke of terror on its sheen.
But at other gentler times,
other, gentler juices stain
your wicked curve.
A snick of grass, a sliver of skin,
a slice of beet.
A humble everyday thing.
Kopesh kopis kora
sussurating on my tongue.
Dull brass you lie
carved and elaborate on my table.
It takes a different kind of bravery
to pick you up and cut open
this letter,
this bearer of forgotten wounds.
