Dear Friends, This is my first post of a poem with apologies to TS Elliot.
Here, I am, an old man in a wet month
reading to myself, in vain.
I live at the watery gates ( not knowing whether they are gates to hell or heaven)
fighting the cold rain
and knee deep waters in marshy lands heaving a pair of leaden feet,
fearing being bitten by snakes, insects and mosquitoes, fighting to live on.
My house is a decayed house
with cobwebs and walls wet by incessant rains
And I, the Hindu, squat on the window sill,
spawned in some estuary off Bay of Bengal
Blistered in the Deccan, patched and peeled by Laketown.
The cows moo at night in their shelters across clay, trees, climbers, walls and nerds
I keep kitchen, make tea
Sneeze in the evenings, poking with the stick in the marshy soils
I, an old man, a dull head among the bright and crafty.
Here, I am, an old man in a wet month
reading to myself, in vain.
I live at the watery gates ( not knowing whether they are gates to hell or heaven)
fighting the cold rain
and knee deep waters in marshy lands heaving a pair of leaden feet,
fearing being bitten by snakes, insects and mosquitoes, fighting to live on.
My house is a decayed house
with cobwebs and walls wet by incessant rains
And I, the Hindu, squat on the window sill,
spawned in some estuary off Bay of Bengal
Blistered in the Deccan, patched and peeled by Laketown.
The cows moo at night in their shelters across clay, trees, climbers, walls and nerds
I keep kitchen, make tea
Sneeze in the evenings, poking with the stick in the marshy soils
I, an old man, a dull head among the bright and crafty.
