MEANWHILE

Poetry is a drug.

“Somewhere in my subconscious mind, I’m consciously unconscious,

as I stand here still,

very still, adamantly adamantine, still time’s passing by me in a stiller stillness.

I step back and let the wind play its routine, wild and free, as it sets me paranoid.

I’m on my way, ever so insomniac, like I carry this illness,

in between.”

Meanwhile, things happen to me and I’m far from remembering.

“I’m en route, I’m passing by the howling deserts,

the calming grasslands and everything obtuse.

I feel it here, in the subcontinent, twice the iridescence that never really exists.

But imagine, I almost ate up the impossibilities.

Next to the children with their off-season games, plays monsoon in the background.

And well before the clouds are back in place, I wash my eyes and forget it all.

The moment I say, I let it go the very next.

For two hours, I hear it come and go, come and go, and little be the falling sound.

Like somewhere a part of it does well, to fall into the empty space, and lets the lightning do the rest.

I see the same, I see the same with eyes half-open, eyes half-closed.

But still in doubt, if it ever stops pouring on the other side-

the side that opens up into a large water, and mirrors the Earth, mirrors the Moon, down-upside.”

 

I’m afraid, I’m being a little more stupid than I actually am.

I am that poet who does not remember what he writes, unless he writes it over and over.

I am that man, who does no good, to his senses, in reprise.

And lets his diary speak for him, no matter how weird the words do seem.

Like I take a pen and continue writing.

“Tonight I’ll drag myself to the lake outdoor.

The lake that’ll have the night on it, lying quiet, dead cold.

I think I’ll leave my mind back home.

And walk the mile as a child, that far.

For once, I had written a piece of dream.

For once I had thought, maybe I could count the stars.”

Author's Note

Suggestions welcomed.