Kite Dreams

If I stood on a stage in Stockholm

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Monkey

Oh, how dynamite moments,
Fill a hall in Stockholm, Sweden.
Tagore stood there in 1912 
While pretenders of the pinnacle,
Are shy of what it takes, to catapult,
From a slum in Chennai,
To that stage in Stockholm.

How that little house made of cheap timber,
With roofs that blow away, to the storm,
Will now be storm-proof. How the eye of a tempest,
Summons you, the endearing calm
Of a moment, when you walk
On a stage in Stockholm,
Holding a roof made of keratin,
That will not blow away;
Gelled with hairspray, they stand,
Humbled by, the men and women,
Who have gone before you.

How amor fati, states my humble adobe,
Whose slum will not break away to the tempests,
Until the night of nights,
The crucibles where I alloy words,
Into phrases, ink spilled
Into an embroidery of fonts. How God, like a tree
Gives me canopy, until that day, when fate takes
Over. The dog with two tails
That became only one.

How a writer gives birth to a poem,
Like a mother to a baby, pushing
Out, from a pelvis, breaking through an amnion.
How one breathing example
Of ontology, looks like a treasure chest, in a nihilist world,
And amidst lampooned religions, there is a wake;
The dawn of life, some
Long-awaited poetic justice.

How I will smile like Tagore,
And thank every god of every mythology
And religion. I will be poem and poet.
The formula for success is persistence.
How for the umpteenth time,
I became a failure, how through
The crestfallen moments, and the ensuing insanity,
The moments when you feel
Like growing a cocoon, knowing,
Butterflies, don’t really know,
How beautiful they really are….

How beautiful if there was No Nobel Prize,
If Tagore’s poems were like
Ramanujan’s formulas, long and epic, proof
Of something that is bigger
Than life, and still, how sad it would it be
If angiosperms had not evolved.
Still the Nobel Prize, lies in the distance,
As the Mount Olympus of human dreams.
How beautiful that we are not much different
From the apes. How Hanuman
The Monkey God, wrote letters to Rama,
Perhaps, even writing a poem or two.
How like Hanuman, I’m the perfect servant,
Of a craft, that only needs stanzas.
A medal like a baby Papadum, that I will bite softly into,
On a Stockholm stage. How
Stockholm, is just a place to measure who has
The longest and most supple tail,
Of a glorified race of monkeys,
Gripping Hanuman’s pen.

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