Furred Corners Of My Self Poem by Ananta Madhavan

From the furred corners of my tethered Self
I call up creatures, all those lashed voices
Muffled by seemliness and form, they come
With bleeding bodies to be comforted,
But not by healing or medicament.


This one I recognise, poor cripple, he
Broke his shin defending goals from bullies
And limped across the line. In his nightmares
The earth comes hurtling down a blue-black field
And all the stars are laughing as he runs.


This little waif, this wispy, mousy waif,
A lass I might very well have fathered -
Her talent is nail-biting: copied from classmates.
To me she owes her faulty sense of rhythm.
She bolts, as if impelled by electrodes.


This is a weakling. From the first he lacked
The vitamins of robust reality;
Fed on the porridge of myths and fairy tales
He wrote some halting verses, whose merit was
They halted soon.


This is the trier: he has touched all things
From working out chess moves in Golombek
To heraldic signs and semi-precious stones.
He taught himself the staff-notation too,
But cannot sound those golf clubs hung on wires.


This chap I call the Saint: he disapproves
Of everything I do or say or think.
He worships Truth and seeks to be always
Authentic; cannot stand duplicity.
But I am plural and have no truest Me.


This is she whom I have known for long -
I think I loved her, if passion can be loved.
She is not flesh and blood, only dream-fire.
But Oh, the iris of her eye distils
Rain-cloud and sky, rain-cloud, rain-cloud.

- - - -
(1974)