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(16 December 1924 - 9 January 2004 / Mumbai / India)

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Philosophy

There is a place to which I often go,
Not by planning to, but by a flow
Away from all existence, to a cold
Lucidity, whose will is uncontrolled.
Here, the mills of God are never slow.

The landscape in its geological prime
Dissolves to show its quintessential slime.
A million stars are blotted out. I think
Of each historic passion as a blink
That happened to the sad eye of Time.

But residues of meaning still remain,
As darkest myths meander through the pain
Towards a final formula of light.
I, too, reject this clarity of sight.
What cannot be explained, do not explain.

The mundane language of the senses sings
Its own interpretations. Common things
Become, by virtue of their commonness,
An argument against their nakedness
That dies of cold to find the truth it brings.

Submitted: Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Edited: Wednesday, March 28, 2012


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Comments about this poem (The Professor by Nissim Ezekiel )

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  • Ramesh Rai (1/5/2014 3:11:00 AM)

    A Philosophical write.
    True pholosophy of life is always bitter.

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