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i am a door chooser ,i choose the doors i open and close much to the dismay of glum faced shenanigans
-scribbled at the last page of a certain miss chakroborti's statistical mechanic's copy
The listening apparatus
Is silent –
Ahead of sound –
Your eyes gush
Like awakened
Blake.
From: kolkata, west bengal, India
About me: What would I be saying If I said, ‘The sky is true’? Would the dream pass more slowly If I lowered my voice, bassooned my vowels? No end to wonder, I find, And the evening mist is still. I talk in allegory when I speak to myself. I walk up the hill – my spirits rise. The process ‘saying’ again Is always about itself, about something Other than its content Its statement and assertion. I reach with every word For the truth of what I find— I miss and then I say something else. The reader, myself included, Gets only the altered after-saying. Where is the sky in all this--? The measure wavers – the link is broken – Disturbed, a trial of what is, Wanders, palpitates, grows worn In its youth— Like a design by William Morris Or brothel in Joyce’s arcane language.
Did you...close the door? Can I...knock? Why...I don't know. Why should someone knock at doors when someone does not know what to say when a face surfaces at the hinges? Does one expect something when one knocks? Does one knock...just for the sake of knocking? Can there be a knocking without intentions/expectations/illusions? Like...can there be a question which does not contain the implied answer?
To clear mists around my face...can I beg another poem?