Time, Change and I

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No, I’m not a poet.

Only my language turns poetic

when I write of Kasi.

Prose fails when emotions intermingle

with thoughts and together

they burst open the gates

of the reservoir of mind.

Ideas take shape

and flow on to the page

to make a pool of lines

that sometimes reflect

ideas as they were.

Arranged as a paragraph

in a proper grammatical form,

those ideas are called prose,

otherwise a poem.

I know it’s madness to live

in the past: times and places.

I know I’m mad.

I live in a past that happens

only at one place.

It even leaks into the present

and obliterates the sense

of the places where I am.

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I would start day dreaming had I

the luxury of doing as my heart dictated.

There was a time when I

could go sit on a ghat

(there were no mobiles/pagers then)

as long as I felt like, undisturbed.

It was when I could go

to the amphitheatre ground

and sit on the steps

for as long as I wanted,

thinking about my tomorrows (mainly)

and yesterdays (sometimes).

It was a time when I

could spend hours browsing

through the books of the library planning,

like Bacon, to take “all knowledge

as my province”.

It happened: change;

things were not the same again.

 

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

 

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