Saturday, November 20, 2010

Missing Artefacts

In my saner moments I think i must be mad.

Mind-boggling philosophies that'd dethrone Nietzche
Shed blood at the altar of paradigms.

No hoax, this sacrifice.

Clinging to roots that clutch
And to the steel bar with a toe on the footboard
While eyes dart frantically
Now the clock, now the milk about to spill over,
Now the name boards on superfasts.
Wincing at the ‘over’ signal
Of the BPL washing machine,
Jumping out of the skin
At the whistle of the pressure cooker.

Seismic rumblings erupt and flow
Into shapeless scorching lava.
No moulds to trap the molten flow
Into Artefacts.

Words fail.

In my saner moments I think I must be mad.

Written on July 11, 1994

1 comment:

  1. i think i understand this, ma'am. my wife's lot is the same. she has to do several things together, with her eyes always on the ticking clock, and there is no holiday, vacation, rest. for some this will be a passing phase, but some others toil like this all through their lives. to tell the truth, i started realising the full dimension of her sacrifice only in the recent years. men always have their various means to get out it all and unwind, but women are trapped, especially in our cultural background. you have given the poem a different impact by putting things out of sequence, mixing things up to give the cyclonic feel of the hectic schedule involved.


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