A Poem In carte blanche

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I’m still juggling with the title, but I am certain about the poem, currently known as “Mouna Raga/Dawning”. You can read it here in carte blanche.

I know my readers are composed almost entirely of lurkers and stalkers (what? y’all are so silent — the editor of a distinguished magazine once told me that my poems were the most-visited webpage of that entire issue; typically, all was pin-droppable on this blog), but if you have a suggestion about the title (or if you think it works – I can be convinced either way), drop it in the comments, won’t you?

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3 responses »

  1. I felt your poem and I saw it unfolding and yes even felt the warmth of the coffee mug cupped in my hand. I felt at peace. But (I know! sorry about this) when I was reading the second time round I was a little disturbed about “single mango tree drips softly” and “other trees still flower in carcanets of yellow that drift into the dreams of the ironing-man’s child, asleep in the hammock beneath them”. The peace was disturbed because I couldn’t help imagining water dripping into the child hammock, just like it was dripping from the Mango leaves. If you meant to convey that disturbance then I understand. Else, personally it jarred my experience of quiet joy in the poem.

    I liked the title Mouna Raga. You could probably look for a better English one… can’t think of any except for words such as – twilight, melting. Sorry about that.

    I just discovered your poems and spent an hour going through them. Beautiful!

    Cheers
    Padmavani

  2. Stalker ahoy! (And I suspect this be my stock name among Zeitgeist-ites? LOL).

    Maybe I’m still hungover (“weight of water” you say?…yeah, the head’s still heavy, engorged) from this gorgeous line in a Guzaarish review — “life scripts are about the little joys that bloom like flowers under the shadow of the monstrous original tragedy that is existence” — and the intoxication, heightened by this infusion of nostalgia now — thanks to the cannonball-flower of a closing line on the essay whose world you invite us to enter, below — impels me to imagine that flowers are about the only things capable of sweet-talking (at least some of) us into celebrating the evanescence of…well, everything; but I’m nonetheless going to suggest (since you give us carte blanche to conjure up titles) “Morning Glory.”

    Because morning glory is said to symbolize “love in vain,” I see it as a connecting link between the poem and essay, especially the devastation you say the cannonball flower connotes. To me, it evokes an image of night being devastated by the sudden dawning of day (as also immortalized by The Doors song). To borrow from your earlier analogy, night shatters so you can become whole.

    What a lovely poem.

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