and the sheer wetness made me think. I can never write again.
Pink. Pink bougainvillea grew out of my ears
in tender tendrils. I could never write again.
Sometimes they said, you rhyme so well. Your love is
the love of a beautiful woman, your language the most
surreal, that of a beautiful woman. Afternoons in your company
are dreams. I want to live with you.
Together, we shall create fiction.
(And what better compliment?)
I wrote parodies. When something is about to end, crisis
brings forth reinvention. Forever we reconstruct,
forever we rewrite. I had realized
That night. I would never write again.
Or perhaps I would, but only differently-
And I would love again, but also differently
Oleanders are red too, like blood.
We were wet too
Dirt and slush cannot crush the human spirit.
Fiction can also be written with invisible pens
on an intangible parchment-
human minds, and children's tears
old women's stories and their babies' ears
fiction is therefore woven like spider webs
like the Ganges; it flows and ebbs.
That night I knew I would never write again
but would count infinite polaash flowers
and count the minutes, never the hours
and knew that till the end of time
I could never find anything to rhyme
with Bougainvillea. I see you sigh
and whisper, "How strange you are
beautiful witch of the endless night
e ki sandhya"
This evening recedes into universal pain
I knew I would never write again.
(This is sort of a translation of a Bangla poem I wrote, hence it sounds like this.)