Saturday, June 28, 2014

Ambiguous hope


It isn't merely the grotesque shadows of early morning,
Or the Chennai sun's lambast,
But the daring plunge into fear's faces,
For the sake of it,
For the sake of it.


Words seem like stale food
Which even the crows abandon.
Thoughts seem like nefarious strangers
Enticing children with drugged chocolates.

And then there is a sickly deadwood,
A prison within, letting go of nothing,
Holding onto rot, like the Koovam.


But this is Madras,
And you wish to meet strangers,
Who would in rile litany over honking,
Talk philosophy and laugh at the irony.


But this is you,
More and more myopic,
Drawing across the curtains
As if every night is the last act
Of some pathetic play.


This is you,
Lost among the concrete,
Searching for a house with wooden windows.

This is you,
Perplexed by numbered lanes and crossroads,
Wistfully searching for a dead leader's 'way.

This is you,
Looking through the tinted glass
At a medieval city with ancient roots,
Finding spirits cloistered in nine yards
Of unemancipated dreams,
Drying, tied, weighed down and to be sunk.

This is an unrepenting caucus,
And all too none broader,
None to brood,
None to bring home.  


This poem refuses to get tighter,
Or leaner, or meager.
And I throw my hands up
Let it be, for these words are my solace.


This is a journey,
And no cliche is apt enough.


And you want the hope,
You want it to carry you away,
You want it to carry you home.

You want it anyway.

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