by Bibhu Padhi (October 2015)
This time there are no excuses
for not being what you promised to be.
All the wrongs committed in the name of
what we always wanted, have found their excuses:
the mind’s naïve assertions despite
the body’s inaccurate behaviour,
the heart’s locating its own luminous reason
for what you did in the dark repeatedly,
following your own hand’s involuntary moving towards
the magnetic appeal of what lay exposed,
to wild possibilities of victory and defeat,
win and loss, a limp terminal of sorts.
There is nothing more to be done
or achieve, or, if there is, it is
only to accumulate additional
shades and names to a list of memories,
your brittle sleep. This is the time
to rebuild ruined homes, repossess
an honest, faultless wish, insistently
reminding yourself of how there comes a time
when even a precious wish, somehow
fondly remembered through
all acts of violence and gossip,
by the world’s habitual treachery
can always shift into
a passion, get lost irretrievably.
Bibhu Padhi’s tenth book of poems, Midnight Diary, has just been published. He lives with his family in Bhubaneswar, India.
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