Ananta Madhavan Poems

I sit like a child
Building word-blocks
And pile them up high -
A nose-scraper, no less;
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Art is a desperate distortion
Of the between-spaces I seek to dwell in.
Poets may chance on their location.
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Take up a cut-glass poem
And hold it to the lamp,
That you might see
Radiant opacity
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Ants on dry stalks of grass
Scurry everywhere.
Their way to the next clump
Is to climb to the top of a blade
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1.

The onion moon is chopped by ripples.
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Speak true, they said
and sniggered when I took them at their word.

Play fair, they said,
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1. That day the Alps grew slowly beautiful.
Touching hands, we learnt to ski.

2. I did not race the river as I walked
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The worm's- eye view
Is fine for you,
Until you see
That cavity
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Utterance is a commitment.
Therefore be imprecise in speech,
Use words like chords,
Press many keys at once.
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First, cast out metaphor,
For that is alchemy;
Yours is not to make magic.
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