The night before surgery: thoughts and stuff…

Stuff, mostly. Things that came or went or stayed or circled back…in no particular order:

1. My unfinished poems. Technically, what is the status of a half-done poem when life is finished?
2. The first thirteen lines of a brand new poem. Quite unrelated to the situation at hand. Poetry comes when it comes. Even through a canula.
3. One person I wanted to apologize to. From way back before way back. Time moves in mysterious trajectories inside a hospital, dodging right angles and ramps, needles and gurneys.
4. How mesmerizing that infinitely slow drip from the IV pouch is – like an existential morse code. Drip. Dash. Dash. Damn. Drip.
5. Two questions the universe hasn’t answered yet. The universe needs deadlines and then someone to enforce the deadlines. The united nations of forsaken questions.
6. All the people I hadn’t visited when they were in hospital. Karma is a fucking vengeful accountant.
7. All my passwords. To important things. To streaming apps. To game apps. Memorized for potential transfer in the ether.
8. How will people I know who don’t know any one else I know, know if I die?
9. What about the person who gets my mobile number? What if they get the call I am waiting for?
10. The earliest I can go to South Korea is next summer. Maybe it will be beautiful in autumn? Will seasons still be seasons next year? Will next year still be next year? Will I still be I? What difference will it make?
11. Raised voices. Running feet. Wheels. Hums. Clanging of metal. Like the inside of a program. Everything in binary code. [Life. Death.] [Hospital. Sky.] [Tomorrow. Maybe.] [Why. If only.] [1.0.]
12. AK Ramanujan’s poem about the death of his father:
“But someone told me
he got two lines
in an inside column
of a Madras newspaper
sold by the kilo
exactly four weeks later
to street hawkers”

I was paraphrasing, crushing his craftsmanship inside my head. But this is now. No one prints obituaries anymore. No one reads newspapers anymore. But someone told me / she got 17 likes/ and the odd comment/ on an Instagram post/ that an algorithm relegated/ executing quietly / an hour later
13. My mother.

Turning Two

This blog turns two today.

Today, I will not count the number of posts or views or comments,
as a blogger, perhaps, should,
I will not list all the things I have learnt about poetry and poets,
as maybe a writer should,
But I will remember all the wonderful people I have met and the friends I have made along the way.
As a traveller would.

And I will know that this journey has been worth it.

again, again,
the roses whisper,
tell us again about the ocean

RIP

look at the summer sun today
hiding its face
in a wet cloud

Lost a dear friend today. Confined to a wheelchair after a Polio attack at age 5, she spent her life championing the cause of people with disability and was a massive inspiration to hundreds of people. Will miss you Hema.

One Year Later

This blog is a year old today!
Not only has it survived much longer than I expected it to (considering the fate of its predecessors) but it has over 275 poems. Thanks so much for your support! Couldn’t have done it without you and the wonderful poets at Poets United, Dverse Poets and Carpe Diem Haiku Kai
Am hoping the muse sticks around! 
This was the first poem I posted- on Oct 25th 2014:
The End
When you can’t tell
what remains of me,
from the earth
or the ocean floor;
When my voice is scrubbed
from the itinerant air,
that light can paint
my image no more;
When the mist
that brushed my weary face,
has washed its hands
in the bowl of the sky;
the rain that cooled
the feel of your skin,
has patted its
pearly droplets dry;
When you can’t tell
what once was me,
when it seems
I was just a dream;
I won’t live, trapped
in your memory,
you see, love too
could have never been.

the moor of morning (for Thotpurge 8.26 S)

Sharing this take on my Troiku “In the Morning Light” by Jules Paige. This is the 250th post on this blog and a creative collaboration seems to be the right way to mark it, don’t you think! Thank you Jules!

Source: the moor of morning (for Thotpurge 8.26 S)

Troiku is a form created by Chevrefeuille who hosts CarpeDiemHaikuKai. This is a variation on his form. The original prompt was hosted at Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie.

Monsoon Countdown

My poem “Monsoon Countdown” also up on ‘Poet’s Corner’.

Poet's Corner

Submitted by Thotpurge

Dervishes dance in swirling robes of grey,
circling around our summer emptiness,
the gloomy cadence of the flutes of May,
remember monsoon songs of loneliness.
In opaque mists, a thirsty heart still pines,
shadows huddle in a dissonant head,
broken quatrains shiver on rain drenched lines,
skies cough and wheeze in murky cloaks of dread.

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