The Way I Walk

I write the way I walk,
in the morning, still smelling of sleep and stars,
head bowed, the familiar even stranger
like a long lost childhood acquaintance,
staring sometimes at a house, a tree, an idea,
as if it were relocated the night before,
as if going faster will stretch the road,
or make the slightest difference to yesterday’s butter chicken,
the past unaltered by the plodding ministrations of the present;

I write in long strides on empty pavements,
an exercise over loose stones and silent ugliness,
while the sun is already warm on April’s shoulder,
words frown, seeking the shadows
of metaphorical jacarandas, before they form,
no one notices the unbalanced gait, the faltering,
frequent collisions with imagined obstacles,
no one cares in a city stretching a million arms,
covering a million yawns, for such early indulgence,

I write with the urgent numbness of the unslept,
in the blind spot of a world
consumed by its own reductive parentheses,
dropping hoarse consonants in my path
like a dog walker who does not pick up after his pet,
walking too short a distance to be useful,
too long to be pleasurable stroll,
too many times to be able to separate one rhythm from the other,
too hamstrung in my own trail to recognize the short way home.

I write the way I walk,
one unmeasured thought chasing after the other,
as another day implodes along its fault lines.


29 thoughts on “The Way I Walk

  1. “Words frown” Haha! They do in this poem, though ” the sun is already warm on April’s shoulder.” How to stumble into wakefulness on such a morning when “the way” is both a path and a bundle of attitudes? I know the unfamiliarity of the familiar, and often welcome it so I will look twice and won’t stop seeing at all. But here to see is to see what’s missing. I feel I know the person walking, who wakes smelling–delightfully, I think–“of sleep and stars” but ends up criticizing the world and the self for lack of measure, timeliness and beauty. Perhaps–I hope–we are missing something.


  2. April seems to have lost all Her charm these days, save for a few Kalbaishakhis in our State…sameness mars everything…love the sponateous flow of the words here….


  3. I write with the urgent numbness of the unslept,
    in the blind spot of a world

    This poem reminds me so much of myself, and what else can we ask of our poets than to hold up a mirror to our own faces?

    Just brilliant.


  4. Amazing that this was spontaneous; it reads as so accomplished. The reward, I guess, of working at one’s craft. The repetition of ‘I write’ works beautifully, and it’s altogether a lovely and enthralling read.


  5. There’s rhythm that compliments every image captured, and makes this poem such a joy to read. Brilliant write!


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