Poetry at Sangam
Poetry at Sangam showcases poetry in English and translations as well as essays on poetics and news of new releases.
As we talked of thrombosed air
Someone cried this too shall pass
The coated concertina lung
Will cough a bit but will not gasp
We breathed the air, the politics
Choked us again and someone asked
Where are we headed? A third replied
The wine is draining from the glass.
We froze –a semi-drunk pointed out
the masses, they were badly caught
in soundless semi aralysis,
as in a coiled, contorted yogic squat.
The screen’s frames did not move, we found.
Why this infernal stasis here?
Zero protest dampened souls,
But rum and rumour brought some cheer.
Jumping to conclusions, are we?
The hobo in our gang chipped in;
‘The lot of you seem to forget
the pied piper of Hamelin.’
We talked of poets, and the times:
Desert warfare, Michael Hulse,
Padel, Dharker, Jeet and CP.
Death walked in and felt my pulse.
‘Poetry’s gone my friend’, he said
‘but the blood is fine, so do not brood’.
He left with some prognostications
and debris from his hobnailed boot.
Drinking stopped, we felt the intrusion
had a sting, some were confused;
the poet –gang unhindered joked,
talked of cadence, talked of blues.
A shutter fell across her eyes
she somehow felt we had been used.
We did not notice light had dimmed
Till she said, ‘The bulbs have fused’.
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