Murari Sinha Poet Prose Poetry

The Time That Is Moving Round Me Now 4 - 6

4
there is no ending of words 

is there anything that may be called 
the end-word 

let the words make questions 
let the words give replies 
let the words shout
let them battle among themselves 

i can’t understand 
why is there so much endeavour 
to take me into that chaos 

a plant of small white flower 
is enough to make a garden itself 

even-then 
an assembly of 
the rose the jasmine the tuberose is made
to increase the rule of the garden 

after picking flowers from those plants 
my wife puts them to the feet of the god 
to worship him 

she has a drinking-glass a plate 
a hand-fan a throne 
for her god 

all are like tiny-toys 

among them 
the throne
is very important 

till today 
in many of our houses 
there is a throne

but it is neither for accession of men 
nor for making themselves king 

i’ve already said 
the throne is for our god 

that means for our lying on 
there may or may not  be 
even a broken cot 

but for our family-god 
to provide a throne
is a must
 
5
on that day 
when once i had gone into the 
myself-man 

i saw 
that the government and the opposition 
both sides were gheraoing  one another 

in the same pace
they were reciprocally
quarrelling threatening rebuffing abusing 

thus there was running 
a fine piece of democracy there 

it gave me enough pleasure 

then i again came out 
of that myself-man
 
in the outer-world
i saw 

bypassing the stones and the hard 
the roots of the trees 
going deep down in the dark
in search of soft soil 

and their branches are taking bent 
towards the sun-light 

 6
of late 
my intelligence seems somehow 
to become slippery

there is so much pollution 
in the myself-ism 

it seems 
even in collision with my shadow 
some dragon-flies are killed every day 

why do my eyes see so little 
why do my tongue speaks so harsh words 

to whose custody has gone 
those rain-drops 

those lemon-blossoms 

there is the glittering of dew-drops 
on the cob-web

the evening-worship 
is sinking into the barking of dogs 

as if the wings of the parrots 
become van-rickshaw 

as if the moon-light were
gradually retreating 
in the enlightened city-life

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