Jaswinder Bolina, American poet, born 1978
AT WAR WITH THE CYNICS
Jaswinder Bolina
O, night! I’m too sad to sing
my petulant arias, I can’t stand
the sound of my own blubbering!
O, night, make me something
other than I am now mopey
though the chipper crickets
play leggy violins inside you,
the owls are stout concertinas
puffed up hooting as your zephyrs
xylophone across gator spines
in the glades, then rush up
to tease me in my bleak office
like bawdy ditties from faraway
festivals I’m not privy to!
O, night, I’m tired of talking
about myself, tell me more
about you with your blue
Neptunes and red Betelgeuses,
your eternities with too little
inside them! O, night, must I be
lonely and mad forever? At least
we have each other, O, night,
like the baby has his blankie
coiled all around him,.
but even the baby is tangled
up in my sorrow, O, night,
I have too much to love
and not long enough to love it!
O, night, make me something
other than I am in my incessant
glooming in the dappled dark
of Florida where the parrots roost dopey
in the bosoms of gumbo limbo
trees until squawking morning
when they brunch on maggots and seeds,
bomb lilied shits upon our sedans,
then soar off to Bimini!
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GOD IS NOT A FATHER
Jaswinder Bolina
When you ask, I tell you God is just a word for things
We don’t understand yet. Outside the packed tavern,
A solitary drunk staggers into a sudden shaft of sun
Like he’s about to be raptured or transported
Onto a starship. The furry waveform of a squirrel
Bounds into the hard particles of traffic. You look small
Even for a little kid eating Goldfish® crackers
In a booster seat in the rearview mirror. When you ask,
I tell you some call it God, but others call it Om
Or Satnam or Unkulunkulu, and some call it Father,
But god is not a father. Because god is a mommy?
You ask. I tell you maybe, but some say god is
Something greater than a mommy or a daddy.
You say, Nothing is greater than mommy.
I tell you maybe, but some say god is the first cause,
And some say God is the last word, and some don’t
Say anything at all because is supposed to be
A sound louder than the mouth, an idea bigger
Than the mind. A billion or a quadrillion
Or an infinity times bigger? I tell you
Nothing is bigger than the mind. I tell you
Infinity is just a word for things we haven’t
Figured out yet. Some say it isn’t even real.
But you say, Infinity is real, and I tell you maybe
Because a father doesn’t need to be a zealot or a cudgel.
It starts to rain. The wipers wave back and forth
Like arms above a revival. You inhale
A boxful of raisins. You pound a pouchful of yogurt.
I call you a bottomless bunny, and you giggle
Like a windchime. We drive through the downpour
Listening to human music. You ask, How did I learn
How to talk? You ask, How does the rain rain?
You ask, Who was the first person? Was he lonely?
The rain stops. A sunburst douses the road
In a nearly intolerable light. I tell you, By listening.
I tell you, By gravity. I tell you the first person
Was a squiggle of nucleotides dropped
From a meteorite into a bubble of petroleum
In a tide pool on the Proterozoic earth. You ask,
When will we be home? I want to see Mommy.
I tell you maybe six minutes.
I tell you probably ten.