The old little men missed their war
Always wishing they had died in it.
They were old men with dry mouths
Being read to by boy, awaiting rain.
The new Gerontion needs psychiatry
In a new section for such a geriatric.
Now we have an entire department
For what ever little is left of the Old.
We have a section for old little man
Who has grown odd despite himself.
He has never dreamed he could pass
For a little odd star burnt out in sky.
(After T.S.Eliot’s famous poem Gerontion)
Cat clouds are nimbus or cirrus
Passing like clouds of moments.
There will be others in waiting
To turn other or to fizzle down
Like words turn vapor in winter
On the eyeglasses of dad’s eyes
About his son who turned cold
Or a memory’s cloud of a mom
A moment flitting across mind.
Mere vapor changes its shapes.
We cannot dig a sun’s archives.
Take my word for it my friend.
Gold had glittered so famously
By old sun that would later set.
He was a sun who rose to fame
As who could glitter anything.
Those days he was so famous.
All that he glittered was gold.
I have bided through my decrepitude
For a young poet’s poem on Chapman.
Now I am on top of a hill of discovery.
Below is expanse of peace and depth.
Now I have discovered youthful verse
On this ancient poet’s magnum opus.
I let an old chap man lie undiscovered.
I have found a young poet’s discovery.
(On first reading John Keats’ excited paean about Chapman’s Homer titled “On First Looking Into Chapman’s Homer}
Then there were rains on sea
And on beach on a dark night.
It poured outside my balcony
Like shifting shower curtains,
In a night’s fluffy street lights
With the halos of rain moths.
Birds and animals went silent
Crowds hid under food carts.
A city’s gutters danced naked
On the beach with all its filth,
Plastic decadence in its litter
By city of everyone’s destiny.
A life on river strand by which
I ate, slept and lived a month,
Watching the ferries flowing
To a village on the other side
With people shouting in wind
As the banyans looked down-
That was my reality of dream.
The river may be existential
Possibility flowing down hills,
A strand from inside a dream.
Words are metaphors for our escape
From body’s prison, its thought limit.
We propose buy land and border it
And let imagination set a fancy price
At a far future , for gold it will bring.
The metaphor of the six by four plot
Comes to us so easy, to our borders.
A metaphor blurs borders so much.