Soliloquy

My poem The Last of the Swallows was published by Plato’s Caves Online here. I have also reproduced the entire text of the poem below in full.

The rut begins just as the roots wither away.
The last of the swallows sink their teeth into
The birch-coloured branches of the Pipal but
Fly away unsated. For the Pipal, the marks
Remain on its centuries-old trunk; the birds
But a metaphor for exposure from the outside.
Beside myself with anger, I stride furiously.

The pain fades sooner than my reverie does.
My hands dissolve in the moisture of turmoil
That they seek without consent. I accord
Myself the pleasure to be able to sit down
Unhinged by the ringing bells of my watch;
Soon enough I hear the riotous cheering of
The bulbuls rueing for the last days of spring.

Mirages form in tandem and I am left with no
Option but to chase the stray squirrel away
From under the canopy of the grand Banyan.
It sheds a tear. I open my eyes to find it
Still disgruntled with my overtures, but then I
Realise that the Banyan is a part of my dream,
In woeful remembrance of a childhood lost.

The neem covers itself with honey-coloured
Straw while my ears get used to this tune.
I know little of the comings and goings of the
Several mynahs that like to straddle upon
The huge vacuum of my balcony. They urge
Me to write them a song- one that evades
References to beauty, melody and harmony.

I cannot afford to take the afternoon off in
Joyful siesta. I dream that I’ve reached inside
The burrows under the Pipal and eked out
What little reality I can from under it. The road
Glistens in promise of the water that cannot
Be found; I envy the luxuries of those who live
Inside their heads, existing unlike I do.

Time remains just the same; friend to many
But stranger to me. I do not know whether
I have crossed my limits in asking the sun to
Evade passing by my lawns this evening. The
Bleak glances from my neighbours don’t help,
And I cannot expect myself to understand this
Quagmire of which I have been no author.

Over the immense gardens left by a heritage
Of an imperial past lies an immortal light. I defy
The workings of my mind as brooding upon it
Only makes me bigger than my body. I can’t help
But contemplate the ebbings of the last rays
Just as I am left pacifying my unhurried nerves.
I feel the exaggerated silence inside. It’s time.

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