06.09.09----the day that followed
It’s not about how deep the night was.It’s all about what followed.
It’s about getting drenched in September and wondering at every drop like it’s a miracle. It’s about reclining in the backseat of a car at !:00 in the morning..and smiling at violet skies..its about the song struggling out of a roadside radio
~waqt ne kiya kya haseen sitam..
tum rahein na tum..hum rahein na hum..
Its about being centuries of silence apart from the sea . .its about drowning endlessly in it nevertheless. Its about straining to hear the tune heard in a childhood dream or maybe a movie long ago…its about the silent sigh that follows.
Its about being mad like a spring-chased deer in autumn. Its about endlessly searching for the poet..it’s the bliss of being the poet and not having to write.It’s the pain of being poetry ,inexpressible..it’s the need of feeling Keats once again today..it’s the desire to echo Cullen
"John Keats is dead," they say, but I
Who hear your full insistent cry
In bud and blossom, leaf and tree,
Know John Keats still writes poetry.
And while my head is earthward bowed
To read new life sprung from your shroud,
Folks seeing me must think it strange
That merely spring should so derange
My mind. They do not know that you,
John Keats, keep revel with me, too.