Wednesday, August 22, 2007

roshan's first long poem - under the aegis of Eliot's star

Evenings are the most graceful,

Unleashing sheets of speckled rain,

Washing away red mud.

Scurrying leaves, sprinkling water down,

Twisting the cold, brittle air, before arriving

To gently make ripples and

Little exploding crowns of water.

The people see it too, and stop

And smile.

And shake their heads slowly and smile again.

The second lasts only a second,

and their estimable lives continue.

The rain,

the rain falls more than slowly.

Life’s bitter end continues now,

An aftermath of decades of cruelty,

It came upon us, a red mist, over the forest,

Under the bridges, through the narrow alleys,

Until it reached a large, high wall where it waited.

Over the city, it spread now, and children blew

Yellow bubbles from their mouths,

Tugged at their parents' black robes

And asked them in shrill voices for more money.

The world buckles, and turns to man.

Half begging and a little green.

Artificial insemination doesn’t work in the brain.

A transient life form,

Grabbing at comfort, sees another of its kind,

Perceives irregularities in the physical,

Doesn’t sense the mental.

Immediately, after a wait of nearly a second,

It's utterly mystified creator, puts his head into

His hands and cries for years-

‘not again!’

Yet again and again, they throb to each other’s

Pulse and feel skin-deep.

And another one tomorrow.

And yet, comfort comes

And comfort goes,

Leaving nothing for the unfortunate.

Where they sell their souls for instant pleasures

Or bleed their brains for alcohol- there

seemingly exists no pain

And unending comfort.

But the barman knows the truth.

And so do the tramps who pick up the bottles

The very next, sunlit morning.

The sun excellently wipes out memories,

Masterfully erases artificial thoughts.

Clear and pure, its warm rays, glow and

Caress the cold flesh of waking zombies,

Until their inseparable thoughts become


The sun appears now, high above,

Carefully adjusting its angle,

Not wanting to sprout unnecessary joy.

For it too knows the cost of extra joy,

And no pain.

The people, like always, walk on.

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