Concerning a Room . . .

The time four thirty.
The air in the room swirling round just there
                                                        rises up and falls down.
Once in a while a koel-call.
Everything is becoming burdensome.
I believe there used to be a stone slab
by the highway to shift the burden from one shoulder to the other.
A room is neither a highway nor is it a four-road junction.
It’s a prison built within a house
                             a prison within a prison – the man within a man.
The butterfly that has unwittingly entered the room
after the windows have been shut
                                                       the fly underneath an inverted glass.
The time when dreams are turning into curdled milk.
A dog with its face resting on its forelegs surveying all
the room filled with the non-living and the living, sleep and wakefulness.
A scene when the day-hand is about to meet the night-hand
should be wonderful but it’s disturbing
unbearable, intolerable –
like an impotent anger – feel like shaking off everything but powerlessness
Maybe the time when one is so tired and falls asleep – gets up again and cries
Maybe the time when you recall from memory a few sentences – crazily stupidly
Maybe the time of searching and catching hold of a sentence aimlessly, wandering in 
bazaars
a relief somehow from turmoil
some peace, some comfort.
Some undisturbed sleep is needed
but from one turmoil to another turmoil –

Weaving pointlessly the whole night
enveloping flames from all directions
a loud shriek from within before losing life
not being able to let out the shriek I thought I had let out
                              not going beyond the throat even when let out.
It’s not a comfort benumbing all the senses
                                                         not even a sorrow like a poison.
A distress like a darkness unlike darkness, a dawn unlike dawn
                              an indecisive state in an in-between hour
an inexplicable dangerous state
when all storms turn inward
                                and hang softly around the sides of the room.
                                Must draw the unseen curtain, how?
Somewhere a strange birdcall
wind that has become heavy having got wet and wet again, in and outside the room.
All over the stifling room
old-time photographs, books, papers
bloodstain of a dead mosquito and a kohl mark
a bottu stuck on the mirror, people sleeping like logs –
Where’s the question of kinship and relationship for people who died in sleep?
As if someone is calling as if no one is calling
As if someone is looking as if no one is looking,
                               In any case, is this the time to write a poem?
                               Is this the time to retire quietly?                                 

                               The time is five.
                               In any case, is the room alive or dead?

Concerning a Room . . .

Concerning a Room . . .

The time four thirty.
The air in the room swirling round just there
                                              rises up and falls down.
Once in a while a koel-call.
Everything is becoming burdensome.
I believe there used to be a stone slab
by the highway to shift the burden from one shoulder to the other.
A room is neither a highway nor is it a four-road junction.
It’s a prison built within a house
                       a prison within a prison – the man within a man.
The butterfly that has unwittingly entered the room
after the windows have been shut
                                           the fly underneath an inverted glass.
The time when dreams are turning into curdled milk.
A dog with its face resting on its forelegs surveying all
the room filled with the non-living and the living, sleep and wakefulness.
A scene when the day-hand is about to meet the night-hand
should be wonderful but it’s disturbing
unbearable, intolerable –
like an impotent anger – feel like shaking off everything but powerlessness
Maybe the time when one is so tired and falls asleep – gets up again and cries
Maybe the time when you recall from memory a few sentences – crazily stupidly
Maybe the time of searching and catching hold of a sentence aimlessly, wandering in bazaars
a relief somehow from turmoil
some peace, some comfort.
Some undisturbed sleep is needed
but from one turmoil to another turmoil –

Weaving pointlessly the whole night
enveloping flames from all directions
a loud shriek from within before losing life
not being able to let out the shriek I thought I had let out
                         not going beyond the throat even when let out.
It’s not a comfort benumbing all the senses
                                                 not even a sorrow like a poison.
A distress like a darkness unlike darkness, a dawn unlike dawn
                          an indecisive state in an in-between hour
an inexplicable dangerous state
when all storms turn inward
                          and hang softly around the sides of the room.
                          Must draw the unseen curtain, how?
Somewhere a strange birdcall
wind that has become heavy having got wet and wet again, in and outside the room.
All over the stifling room
old-time photographs, books, papers
bloodstain of a dead mosquito and a kohl mark
a bottu stuck on the mirror, people sleeping like logs –
Where’s the question of kinship and relationship for people who died in sleep?
As if someone is calling as if no one is calling
As if someone is looking as if no one is looking,
                           In any case, is this the time to write a poem?
                           Is this the time to retire quietly?                                 

                           The time is five.
                           In any case, is the room alive or dead?