The Wind didn’t come from the Orchard—today—

A storm is brewing over the South China sea, hitting central and north provinces of Vietnam. Pray that it wouldn’t play much havoc. Impact of the storm called ‘Sonca’ is seen in Saigon too. Today is, like Pooh bear says, ‘rather a blustery day’ in Saigon. A wind is raging outside today. It all started with a knock on the door yesterday, then there were these rattling  doors and windows, a humming  and rumbling noise outside. In the middle of the night I was woken up by a  pounding on my bedroom door. That was indeed frightening!

 Coincidentally I was carrying that wind inside me for the last four days! Regardless of my resistance  and displeasure, a lute a tight stringed one, was playing inside me. Like an inexperienced conductor he was fiddling with my chest muscles, trying different chords and pitches varying the tempo every now and then. The unpleasant music was coming out as a whistle, a wheeze that weighed down my whole being and left me breathless. Allergic wheezing is a nightmare!

Today I threw that mad music that resided inside me out, it flew out of the window as a breeze, then as a howling wind and then a gale! I shuddered at the noise it made. That is when Emily visited me like a cool breeze on my face with three of her wind poems. It was like a tap, a soft knock on the door …

 

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  THE WIND tapped like a tired man,
And like a host, “Come in,”
I boldly answered; entered then
My residence within

A rapid, footless guest,
To offer whom a chair
Were as impossible as hand
A sofa to the air.

No bone had he to bind him,
His speech was like the push
Of numerous humming-birds at once

 

His countenance a billow,
His fingers, if he pass,
Let go a music, as of tunes
Blown tremulous in glass.

He visited, still flitting;
Then, like a timid man,
Again he tapped—’t was flurriedly—
And I became alone

 

The footless man is so flexible that it seems there are no bones to bind him ( just like the dancer Prabhu Deva). From the rustling and swaying of my curry leaf plant or from the dancing  beads of the window blind cords, I feel his presence and his tunes. His visits are brief and I too could never offer a chair to the shy nervous guest who always leaves flurriedly!

75

Of all the Sounds despatched abroad,
There’s not a Charge to me
Like that old measure in the Boughs—
That phraseless Melody—

The wind combed hair of the  morning sky

 

The Wind does—working like a Hand,
Whose fingers Comb the Sky—
Then quiver down—with tufts of Tune—

 

Here Emily talks about the old measure in the boughs, the phraseless melody of the wind that thrum upon the doors.

But today’s is a different story…

316

The Wind didn’t come from the Orchard—today—
Further than that—
Nor stop to play with the Hay—
Nor joggle a Hat—
He’s a transitive fellow—very—
Rely on that—

 

If He leave a Bur at the door
We know He has climbed a Fir—
But the Fir is Where—Declare—
Were you ever there?

 

If He brings Odors of Clovers—
And that is His business—not Ours—

      Then He has been with the Mowers—
Whetting away the Hours
To sweet pauses of Hay—
His Way—of a June Day—

If He fling Sand, and Pebble—
Little Boys Hats—and Stubble—

With an occasional Steeple—
And a hoarse “Get out of the way, I say,”
Who’d be the fool to stay?
Would you—Say—
Would you be the fool to stay

~ Emily Dickinson

 

How aptly and logically Emily called the Wind a TRANSITIVE FELLOW! His transition from a breeze to a gale to a gust to a storm and the transition in his music modulation is sometimes predictable. We can easily apply mathematical logic to his moves.When he drops a bur we know that he has come after climbing a tree, when he brings with him the sweet smell of freshly cut grass, we are definite that he was with the mowers. Now! The moment you see him fling sand or pebble, beware! You keep away from his sight! He can grow powerful enough to throw a steeple! He is a raging man then, shouting ‘Get out of my way!’… Would you be a fool to stay then? Give way to him. (The footage of a video of a riverside pagoda with beautiful golden spire disappearing into the flood waters in central Myanmar has been circulating on social media yesterday.) Don’t we remember the storm scene in King Lear? The old irrational king challenges the weather and wanders on the heath and his Fool pleads him to be indoors and makes a strange prophecy.

Peace be with you violent winds!