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| Vol. 4, Issue 5 May 2012 |
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Fiction & Poetry |
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Poetry |
The Naming of Things
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Published : 1 October 2011 |
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Call the girl asleep on the bench an avalanche:
swiftness is not her calling, but she will forgo stillness
to become the eel in his big glass world, otherwise known as a jar.
Call the boy on the terrace an insect. His thoughts, minuteness.
Call him Yashpal, Surinder, Joseph, Millipede. Don’t
call it to his face, or his million legs will crumble. Call that love
Call this century a fortress. The girl and the boy waking
to the oddness of brevity every day. Call their year a
novel, but say it lightly. Call it a novella, then.
When they step out into the city, call it a brothel. Call
them like their mothers; call them “cacophony” and
“dissidence” and they won’t know what you’re talking
about. Call that love, again. Call this narrative
a momo. Steamed. They’ll eat it for lunch, and step out
into a riot. Call it drama, and they will meditate through it.
Call this violence victimhood. Call academia buggery.
Call poetry trivialising loss, and
don’t go back to the beginning.
Deepika Arwind has published poems and short fiction in Himal Southasian and Pratilipi.
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Readers' Comments |
Total Comments
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Norberta
16 December 2011
02:15 AM
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The poem is too abstract, deals with too many ideas and seems laboured.
I suggest to Indian poets: read the ancient Chinese poets! They have been a great influence on modern American poets.
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Shashank
10 December 2011
10:27 AM
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Stunning! Loved the form and the loop of the poem. But I won't call that love.
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