On the way back
from the hospital
I ask in the rickshaw —
Why this life-long marination
in nature and language?
Why go desperately
Sensing the too-named
Naming the too-sensed?
Where do I go gutfully
as seasons blaze through me?
I spot a Gulmohur dance
she knows it is summer,
the flame of anger gorgeous,
and that all creativity
is the revenge of suffering
poetry the daughter of pain
Blushing at the red passerby
I draw a pen from my tote
and uncap it
I begin again