knowledgeable - A blog by Shivam Lotusway

Night of the Scorpion I remember the night my mother was stung by a scorpion. Ten hours of steady rain had driven him to crawl beneath a sack of rice. Parting with his poison - flash of diabolic tail in the dark room - he risked the rain again. The peasants came like swarms of flies and buzzed the name of God a hundred times to paralyse the Evil One. With candles and with lanterns throwing giant scorpion shadows on the mud-baked walls they searched for him: he was not found. They clicked their tongues. With every movement that the scorpion made his poison moved in Mother's blood, they said. May he sit still, they said May the sins of your previous birth be burned away tonight, they said. May your suffering decrease the misfortunes of your next birth, they said. May the sum of all evil balanced in this unreal world against the sum of good become diminished by your pain. May the poison purify your flesh of desire, and your spirit of ambition, they said, and they sat around on the flo

Tree They did not tell us What it would be like without trees. Nobody imagined that the whispering of leaves Would grow silent Or the vibrant jade of spring Pale to grey Death. And now we pile Rubbish on rubbish But though the shape is right And the nailed branches Lean upon the wind and plastic leaves lend colour to the twigs. We wait in vain for the slow unfurling of buds. And no amount of loving can stir our weary tree to singing.                               - Tina Morris