Friday, May 28, 2010

You gave me a poem to write



You were going back
I would have to wait for the reason

You talked relentlessly about the weather
I noted that only old people talk about weather
You said you were old and you were re-starting your life at 27
I said I re-started when I was 24
You said 3 years is a crucial difference...

What really happened in a week?
I cannot possibly know

You were talking about the weather because you said to talk about anything else was painful
I could not guess what pain it was
You looked sad putting up a brave face
I was sad and did not know how I looked

Did you count the number of times we met?
I often term them as meets and not dates

Lately you often looked impatient in those meets
I was so glad to meet you that I deferred the Paul Austeresque investigations
You perhaps wanted me to enquire
I perhaps should have been less hesitant- more forceful in my inquiry
You guided our conversations to me, Tagore, Ray, Calvino, Madame Bovary ...
I never steered them away to you

You gave me a poem to write
I should have made you the poem of my life

To 'You' and Paul Auster

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