“After great pain, a formal feeling comes—” (341)

After great pain, a formal feeling comes—
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs—
The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,
And Yesterday, or Centuries before?
The Feet, mechanical, go round—
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought—
A Wooden way
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone—

This is the Hour of Lead—
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons recollect the Snow—
First—Chill—then Stupor—then the letting go—

by Emily Dickinson (1830–1886)

The Garden Of A Child

I entered the garden of my childhood days after

the storm had passed over. A gentle breeze was

blowing and the sky was blue. Seeing in the

undergrowth a bird that had come out of an egg

only a little while ago and had fallen down, I

put it back in its nest.

It all happened yesterday. Today I am a grown-up

man again, and I just can’t put anything back in

its proper place.

–Nirendranath Chakravarti, India



Trust me

like Pharaohs calling to rain clouds in a drought

Boundless grains of salt parch the Earth

I watch the skies open mouth

Trust me

as sure as death is to sing swiftly to cold bodies

Let’s make ours warmer

fill the space in the universe that propels us closer

The truth without trust

are only falsities lying in remission

repeating omissions

waiting for lies to come to fruition

Trust be nimble

& I’ll be Jack jumping back to the candle stack

that first lit these rhymes for you

Just trust

the way infants knowingly cling to their mothers

small fists of utter dependence

We sway with an unparalleled rhythm

and the pyramid kings have all gone home

I now call you to stand at your throne

I trust you to answer with that

regal swagger I know you have

This is me at my best

throwing down dented armor and all other guises

I trust you to tell me the truth

or do you not know what your disguise is?

Tucked in, patiently pacifying your disgust

I peer into your eyes sometimes

and only see what could’ve been