Monday, March 7, 2011

March

March is when
The day begins early
And lasts longer
The night like a jilted lover
Stands in drunken stupor
Under street lamps
Groping for December,
The neem tree
Rocks on its feet
Like a punch-drunk boxer
Refusing to quit
Though it bleeds leaves,
The air cracks show on the plaster
Shadows look for shade
The feet stop
Without asking
At tender coconut stalls
And eyes look gratefully
At the rain tree
The builder has spared

2 comments:

P. Venugopal said...

i heard an echo reading this poem: april is the cruellest month...
good one, Prabhakar. good images..
"The night like a jilted lover
Stands in drunken stupor
Under street lamps" which have not yet been switched off.
how are you?

Prabhakar said...

Thanks, Venu. To wake from hibernation and spring to life is cruel indeed in the poet's perception. For us summer is cruel indeed. March has particularly bitter memories for me, when someone threatened me "beware the ides of March" and carried out the threat. It was a blessing in disguise. I rediscovered my roots.