make way poet

there are words. and there are words. and there are the oiled limbs of inflection that snake through the imagination of a tumbling scape.

A madman taps on the door of my mind and brings to me the universe wrapped up in a knot of alternating currents arguing like fishsellers for the prize of the soul. that smells more than Bombay freshest saltiest.

I wait for myself in the next room. and conversation trawls through the thick air, cutting through the ocean of an imagination set aflame by the transaction of a dream. all they ask for is balloons in the garden of today. I want more. I want the sky served in a banana leaf. I want to eat it whole. with my bare hands. slurp it like paisam. I want the city to tingle in my body and ring like a bell screaming from the topmost spire.

I want to hear the news yelled out on street corners. to hear my loneliness whipped into the shadow of a tired arc, drawn by the day on a Vasailocalman’s brow. I want to see god dance the swan lake before me. and the revelation slip out of an urchin’s smirk.

the madman understands.
he sees.

He knows that the cats sit together and discuss their revolution. he knows that they spit when they see a black T shirt cross the road before them. that is why he writes.

he knows.
that if I find a coin
in my pocket and
throw it in the air,
the day will shrivel into
a flower, with bated breath
and a sudden intake of testicles
waiting for it to fall

he knows
that the old woman laughing on the street
is secretly watching the tide turn
she’s watching me win a wager
with my past.

I believe the fervency in his voice
when he urges me about the Pundit
who is a rhetorical question that
the pilgrims forgot to ask.

I believe him when he tells me
that the boat is a queen
and hands are commas
searching for a thought to complete them

he knows the
flesh of the beast
as well as the beef vendor’s
shrug, or his quiet smirk

He knows that my nails will continue
to grow even after I die

and most of all
he knows
(no wait, he knew “is he gone!”)
that the word is a messenger
that the letter is unreadable.
and the paper is crumbling.

that is why he wrote

and that is why I read


About teevramadhyam

'I became insane with long intervals of horrible sanity' -Poe
This entry was posted in beauty, Bombay, City, Could be verse, epiphany, I Quote, It is written and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to make way poet

  1. amu says:

    This is all kinds of brilliant. Wow

    • thank you amu 🙂
      Also because Kolatkar is all kinds of brilliant. and the city, of course 🙂
      I’ve been reading boatride and other poems. he’s a god. a golden god.

  2. sumanya says:

    i had to read this a few times and each time, discovered something new. I think this piece is classic!

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