Sunday, June 7, 2015

Et in Arcadia, Ego

The moon
 written in paper veins
Whistling grass
Your skin
Cool
Now warm
Brine
Tanned, stretched
Twisted onto bone
Bound
Now flapping free
Your being enveloped
And voided
Nothingness
Rooted
In your stalks.

Smoothness crumples
No one sees
redness
Pulsing
Directionless
Searching for the Nebula
Which, once blue
Told us of entropy
Of cold distance
Disparate
Disappearing
Darkness

Matters.

Sunday, May 31, 2015

Drilling for Tetroleum

This poem escaped
in the instant
it took
for Id to fall
s
i
x
f
ee
t.

Knots unravel,
feet run aground.
The mind is exiled
outside water.

Off come the smiles
from the oily face
Urania eclipses
the guided missive.

You don't speak.
Nor do I.
You are busy knotting threads
Thinking that you knit.
To you, they are the same now.

You have tied yourself to me.
My caesars will not cut.

Thursday, April 2, 2015

From the tram-tracks



A thousand nights
Unslept
Unfeeling the weight
of a thousand years
that lay on Her lover.

A crane flies along the skyline
Where steeltowers meander
Where Orion hunts no more.

The lepers are gone
From the hydrants.
The forlorn Doel whistles in vain
at constellations smothered by smog,
at banished Shamas
at screeching Starlings.

Can I be the sand
on his tired feet
Or
Seathing saline hands
scraping his being?

My beloved’s face
was carved in lines
not of Sravasti.

The engine roars,
vibrating wings
a memory.
We totter along
through owling woods
strewing entrails
along the asphalt.

Halfway (to Namkhana)
Sun-skinned,
She turns to me
Smiles:
“My name is Arunima Sanyal
Were you looking for me?”

Thursday, March 12, 2015

Les somnambules

Devenir poète,
C'est, devenir un fragment poétique
Qui se forme de feu
Se tue
S'efface

Une mèche de fumée
Montante
Parmi les nuages
vue par les cils
du moitié endormi...

*******************************

The Sleepwalker

Becoming a poet
Is to become a poetic fragment
Which forms itself from fire
Kills itself
Self-erases

A strand of smoke
Climbing
Among the clouds
seen through the eyelashes
of the half-asleep.

Sunday, November 30, 2014

Wedding season

Bougainvilleas blossom
on wintersunned carpet,
Grass
Growing into
The edges
of awakening.

Her man reads, writes
of the undead, unsickening
As the morning she-naigh
Breaks the cold nightly dawn.

Monday, October 20, 2014

Maidan

A brown colt
Voyages out
With a roan mare
and the blueyellow sun
on the fields,
green
seen from a fallen tree.
A banyan tree
it was.
Saw an ancient city born
and the hopes of a young lover
die.

Monday, October 6, 2014

Enfin

I think psychoanalysis is the last resort of the unfortunates who have failed to learn anything from life, love and experience.

I am not referring to reading Freud, Klien, Jung, Lacan or even psychoanalytic journals. I am only talking about the decision to spend unbelievable amounts of money and time lying on a couch talking about oneself, trying to resolve one's inner conflicts and lacunae. Do the analysands have no one to whom they can talk about their thoughts, no arms to cry into? Have they read no books, watched no films that jolt the very fundaments of their being? Have they never walked in a garden or a forest, listening until they listened no more?

The aim of psychoanalysis, as the books tell me, is to draw the attention of the analysand to the fact that s/he is mortal and insignificant, while simultaneously being both responsible and a mere spectator to his/her own life. Are we in an age where people have ceased to marvel, to observe, to savour the good and the bad that happens to them?

If so, I believe we have ceased to be human.