Poetry at Sangam
Poetry at Sangam showcases poetry in English and translations as well as essays on poetics and news of new releases.
The man who knew infinity was born
not far from me, in December,
a long time ago.
It is December now.
The sky cranes her neck
towards the Sunday streets.
The universe does nothing
to steer this loneliness away.
Night brings the moon,
barbs and wings,
a thousand scatterings.
There’s a place that poet’s seek
as real and fearsome as the body.
When I find this place
I will lie down in it,
and it will be like lying
in the stomach of Time –
the dark, pock-marked endlessness of it.
The man who knew infinity
will be there, too,
unravelling the mysteries of zero.
He knows what it means
to take away, yet keep things whole,
to give without diminishing.
It is December now.
The poets fill rooms with dust,
and we still know nothing of love.
When I say, Come,
only the sky leaks in,
and stays a while,
here, where forever lives.
This poem appeared in Everything Begins Elsewhere (HarperCollins India / Bloodaxe UK / Copper Canyon USA)
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