Autophony

  This question called why அனைத்திலும் மிகவும் எரிச்சலூட்டும் கேள்வி. Why is this happening to me? நான் ஏன் தவறு செய்தாலும் என் மீது தவறு இல்லை? Why could it not happen any other way? இந்த வலி, இந்த பதட்டம், இந்த முடிவில்லா துக்கத் தொடர் One never, truly never, has an answer that satisfies. அதைச் சரிசெய்கிறேன் - வேறொருவருக்கு திருப்தி இருக்கலாம். எனக்கு இல்லை. Even Buddha, I think, did not have an answer. அந்த முப்பீடகங்களில் என்ன எழுதப்பட்டிருந்தாலும். I am tempted to be jealous of those that believe in God. Or Karma. Or Kismet. அவர்கள் அவ்வளவு எளிதாக அதுதான் காரணம் என்று கூறுகிறார்கள். Does that actually answer their questions? அல்லது தன்னைத்தானே திருப்திப்படுத்திக் கொள்வது ஒரு சமரசமா? ஏன்? Why is this question alone, never answerable? இந்த அமைதியற்ற மனதிடம் சொல்ல வேண்டும். Do not look for an answer for there is none that is true. ஒருவேளை அதுதான் புத்தர் கண்டுபிடித்த ஷூன்யமாக இருக்கலாமோ? I don't know. தெரிய வேண்டாம்.

Round up all the men because women have the right to walk freely without fear of rape. Round up all the Muslims because Hindus have the right to walk freely without fear of terrorism. Round up all the politicians because voters have the right to walk freely without fear of nonsense. Round up all the mosquitoes because people have the right to walk freely without fear of malaria. Round up all the religion-men because atheists have the right to walk freely without fear of preaching. Round up all the clouds because I have the right to walk freely without fear of getting wet. Round up all the men because women have the right to walk freely without fear of rape. Round up all the pedestrians because drivers have the right to drive freely without fear of jaywalking. Round up all the Bosnians because Serbs have the right to walk freely without fear of ... whatever Bosnians do. Round up all the Serbs because Bosnians have the right to walk freely without fear of ... whatever Serbs do. Round up ...

C'est dans la douleur, dit-on, que naît toute la poésie Je ne suis pas d'accord, car cela vient du cœur —et le cœur est un imbécile sans pareil il ne connaît pas la douleur jusqu'à ce qu'il la ressente au-delà de la peau, des muscles, des côtes quand c'est trop tard Il saigne alors en mots, dansant une tarentelle et on pense que c'est la beauté—c'est juste sa bêtise comme celle d'Hélène de Ronsard à son fuseau. Nous sommes tous les farces de Molière avec nos maladies et vanités imaginaires tu es Tartuffe, il est Argan, elle est Philaminte Et moi, je suis (qui d'autre?) le bourgeois gentilhomme lui-même Qui ne sait pas que le monde se moque de lui qui se lèche et est fier de lui-même— le même chose stupide dans ses côtes, qui, un jour, amènera-le s'allonger sur les neiges de la Bérézina son sang se glace alors qu'il suinte Ou peut-être qu'il échappera à une mort lente ce cœur stupide—sa tête dans un panier alors que ce même sang chaud et f...

There was a young man from Haryana Who moved his home to Telangana He learned Hiragana And then Katakana For he thought he was in Japan-a

 What we are is a jigsaw pieces that come together searching for edges that match some we know will never sit: a sideways glance, a crush, a lifelong regret; some we think will last, but no we stick around a while and then we know we are meant for other things, other people, other places but mostly just being othered some of us are corner pieces who know where we are and who will come to find us eventually I can only wish I was that and some of us are that piece that doesn't fit neither color nor shape nor corner we force it sometimes, set it aside for some later unfulfillable hope until it is too late to realise we were left over from another puzzle, with only the longing to fit, to belong, to be included Published in GloMag, October 2023

Very often the sun rises in warm, golden rays on opening buds, birdsong and dewdrops, and the stench of stale death. Very often the sun rises Upon mutilated men - blood drying over their eyes and gore-caked machetes rusting in their abdomens. Very often the sun rises over hyaenas fretting over the carrion going waste - they can eat no more, nor can the vultures. Very often the sun rises on a day already defeated - shrieking, screeching, screaming, demanding that it go back for there was peace in the night. Published in Tranquil Muse 2018.