India Ink: Puducherry, the Bindi & Fate *

Pexels. Hyann. Photographer

by LJ Frank

years vanish, not all passions are the same

even the sea appears to swallow the sun at dusk

a primordial OM exists in the watery temple of time          

self-worth is futile when in bondage to others’ beliefs


the liquid flows of black pigment

a suspended fluid without original form

in water and a glutinous binder, a shaping begins

each word is penned on the papyrus of the soul


numinous hides in the marginalia of atonement

like an endless journey of crossing a desert

with only the wind and the sound of a camel

the haunting echo of the feint and unfamiliar


and yet I found myself on a voyage of thoughts

as if navigating a ketch across the blue green deep

in search of a distant illusive Muse

my gaze fixed on an invisible spirit


I looked out over the vast Bay of Bengal

and wondered how and why

still recalling the seaplane with engine sputtering

while skimming the surf towards Puducherry


cognizant that life is but a minute

inclinations rooted in my ancestor’s genes

to understand the will is only a beginning

and now rises to taste the unknowable


near-sightedness blinded by an incessant glare

 while insight arrives in the Mind’s Eye

misgivings, fear, vanity, lust, heartache

metaphors of a stranded conscience


blood is shed for a prophetic mission  

a category is invented for approachability

attributes rehashed and rehearsed

allegories appropriated behind a theater curtain


and waves churn a mass of algae ashore

as I settled in an aged, exotic hotel suite

pungent fragrances filter into my nostrils

emanating from the crowded street below


a voice excited to meet a friend by chance

and a whisper of confidence in a tinted wall room

my pen touched the papyrus in translation  

was the Bindi between her eyebrows fate?


letters bled from the pen, the want of knowing

 the sensuality of India ink is provisional

while flowing from the heart’s expressions

each phrase a winged child of a poetic promise


awakening from the slumber of heat

from the balcony noted two figures converse

perhaps Lord Jim and Gandhi crossed paths

a morning shower to bathe in, began


on another balcony you stood breathing

I recognized the color of your Bindi

a smile on the softness of your Muse’s lips

and the rain began to embrace our sin.


*Writer in Exile, A Memoir & Metaphor by LJ Frank © 2022