Poetry at Sangam
Poetry at Sangam showcases poetry in English and translations as well as essays on poetics and news of new releases.
Today, I met
a glassy eyed disease feigning a frayed light-grey limp, begging in coiled pain who hit me with his hobbling staff deaf from bouts of a famished brown road. They inquired about an address to a past history of symptoms from me.
Today, I met
a red eyed disease feigning a patched bottle green stutter that stopped just short of her aching knee joints, who insisted I meet her puzzled painter husband with tall grizzled hair. They inquired addresses to a past history of diagnoses from me.
We entered
a half nibbled building, half raised in clouded bricks strumming the plagiarized chords of a singed ambulance siren, which clanged across an indifferent hospital day. Today, we all reported, we woke up in teary pain. The doctors laughed out loud at our pretense –
we write on and of(f) pain.
Our building
wore a hospital white waist-coat of pain, its jet black innards admitted with complaint of purple pain. Its crumpled cloth cap recorded instructions on mute prescriptions: run tests in misled buildings to laminate all causes of pain.
We stared
in steel sealed tongues at a bespectacled sign board which rattled off various disorders likely to cause pain: Insomnia, worthlessness, nocturnal enuresis, in-patient substitution, sun recreation, and oral representatives. Below written in bold red letters: visitors will collect visitors plotted in cross sections of pain.