The mind is screen like,
Sometimes it figures on,
Sometimes gets deleted from.
With a lime chalk pencil in hand
I thinking about
What to write on, what not,
The matters from the mind to the heart
To transcripts on the blackboard.
But human error ever ready to creep in,
Human error, technical error,
A slip of pen or pencil,
Typographical error, clerical mistake,
But how to construct, how to write
Is the matter of reckoning/
States of feeling,How our emotions,Impulses and desires?
Crying,Daddy, my daddy!Daddy, daddy,My dear daddyIn a girlish voice!The love of her voice,The pain of her heart,Nobody could feel it!Sylvia Plath,The daughter of the daddy,Daddy, my daddy!A girl so sick and sympathetic,Homesick and nostalgic,Daddy-centred!Daddy, O, daddy,O, my daddy,Daddy, daddy on the lips!The daughter’s love for the daddy,The daughter’sLove and sympathy for her daddy.
At a placeInto the landscapesSolitary and lonelyUnder the skiesWith the birds of preyPerched around the topsOr hovering overThe Towers, the Towers of Silence,Silence,Whereupon the Zoroastrians exposeTheir deadAnd birds feeding upon,Cleansing forth flesh,Bones left telling the story of life.
Of her ownAnd stood I hearing her speechlesslyJust like turning stone,As what to say to, what not?Do you love me? Do you love me, say do you love me? ,I still hear the voiceAnd the heart feels it painIn remembering her, Oh, this lost love!
He never desired for a good-looking wifeNor had he dreamt ofAnd got he so easily,Without making an effortAnd lo, see the case of mine,I laboured hard day and night,Spending my time in studiesBut camr she not,As she too had not to come,So came she not.I had thought that I would have a beautiful wifeBut working,Not…
The makers of Bihar’s destiny,The cowboys, buffalomen.
