Rumble Strips

                         1
Epitaph scratched on the surface of the
Water is no less significant to the
Earthly tombstone. If you live in times and
Homes enclosed even casual coupling of the
Shadows may tend to gesture toward casualties:
Lores of Rumours would be
Generated;
Outcastings, exiles, expulsions
Deaths. Orchards would bear fruits
Bearing the complexion of aborted foetus.
Even Romantics tread a midway betwixt
Reform and Progress and hence they
Do offer ephemeral melanges rather than
Carved out rubies of the immemorial. Measure out
The delicacies.
 If night elopes with light
Who took the lead
Is an unnecessary question
Since all proceedings on the
Pavement of the process
Nullify all beginnings. The
Self-redemptive postures…
Being within and among names and homes
Does simply mean a by-stander
Among the inquisitors. So
We may stop here the journey and the
Process as well. It will at least 
Save a martyr from her life. 
                       2
A key hole. A peep into the
Primal scene. Self-resignation
Is converted into a symbol of resistance.
Two bodies finding the warmth and solace of
Flight from the domestic decorum. When the peeping Tom
Happens to be her own child
Another broad way roadside becoming another primal scene on
The coroner’s table. Has he felt for a moment
Everything was crumbling into pieces?
Hasn’t she milked you?
Smothered you with warmthful
Motherly kisses?
Then why do you speak in the voice of your
Dad?
                        3
Miracles do happen very rarely
Even when it happens
They create victims and spectators rather than
Winners and performers.
                      4
Even on the face of effacement there is
A terrible beauty with the Fascists the
Way they leave vestiges on the sands of time
Otherwise we should have called them
Communists.
                           5
Let me begin by exchang-
Ing a token of gratitude with
That crazy poet who unreasonably
Quarrelled with Robert Lowell
But imparted to me the invaluable lesson on
The epistemology of loss-perhaps he may be
The one and only poet who talked of this hi-fi
Jargon in those days-a loss is always a loss
A search for the sources of loss is a futility
We may think that we had lost it somewhere outside
Ourselves; harbours, landscapes and thrice-folded hillshades.
 Later we will realise that the lost object is
Remaining lost in our selves without any hope of
Retrieving. Growth is a curse though an inevitable
Part of the process. Child in us is always here with us but
It can never come out of us crushing the branches and clutches
Of the adult. A tree may yearn for its sap and root
But a going back to the abc of the process is impossible. Likewise a dead woman
May look backward to the space of time where she had lost her
Life. No hopes… no regrets…
Only the epistemology of loss. Once again I am thanking you
John Berryman… 

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