O1.
Time on a Different Plane
Almost exactly at the moment when I thought
of the sentence
that poets have a different time-zone
my wrist-watch stopped showing the correct time
and began to run erratically.
Though I could attribute it all rationally
to faulty mechanism
an eerie feeling did creep in.
Since then I have been travelling along
a different plane.
The time-zone, different plane –
are these actual terrains
or mere fantasies of the brain?
Once again
I look at my watch
wondering whether it was Borges’ Aleph
or just a ‘whiff of breath’….
Right – Left – Right – Left
Turn About –
Guided and misguided by Time
the march continues topsy-turvy.
2.
Rain Readings
No trace of Rain….
Raging heat seems to have
ascended the throne
once again.
Having no power to bargain
with the conspiring
elemental forces
this day wades along
an arid terrain
through horrid hours,
saving itself from swooning
aided by the fountain
inside the brain.
Is the Rain waiting for
an opportune moment
to shower its blessing
or stays away with intent –
to keep me guessing…?
Oh, why so?
Why not Come, See and Go
without turning into something
‘Long Long Ago…’?
To and fro
oscillates the pendulum
The micro-monitor screen
stays mum….
Yet a few more hours
or the day’s farewell…
With tolling bells
the yearning for Rain
swells…
Caught in a quagmire,
hope tends to wane
so the heart keeps bemoaning,
woebegone,
with eternal thirst for Rain
ingrained….
Half-cup full;
half remains empty –
In between these
two refrains
Life hangs
Humpty – Dumpty….
Though appalled,
I quickly take refuge
in the weather forecast,
[Far more reliable these days,
at last!]
that there would be rainfall
without fail….
3.
Losing the essence
Indeed a very pathetic sight it is –
Seeing the butterfly without wings…
and struggling to fly;
to soar high…
The strenuous effort
taking away the sheen of its hues,
left high and dry
so softly it cries
the sound of which escapes even those nearby.
Standing away and witnessing its plights
I merely sympathize,
sporting even a bemused smile.
But, metamorphosing into that very insect
I turn bruised to the core;
could barely breathe….
Has it lost its heavenly wings _
Oh, when and where….?
Or, were they always
a mere semblance?
‘Better to have had it and lost it
than to have never had it at all’
They say…
Perceptions do change
on the brink of collateral damage…
Growing in age
is no gateway to heaven….
Wings intact
is what constitutes
Paradise Perfect.
About the author:
Latha Ramakrishnan (Chennai, India) is a poet, short-story writer, literary critic and translator; she writes poems under the pseudonym ‘Rishi,’ and short-stories under the pseudonym ‘Anamika’. She is also a well experienced translator of literary works from English to Tamil and vice versa. She has published several volumes of her literary works that include poetry, fiction and translated works.
