It’s not that spot, spreading, (A fungus of fearOn the night’s skin?)That I saw on the roofOf the room I hiredEarlier in the day, But the noiseFrom the next roomThat will not let me sleep.
Is it me, or this forsaken placeNot so far from the sea?Just a fan with a nut loose?I start hummingTill a knock fetches me to the door. The stranger complains of a soundLike distant gales in the cistern from my room.
I invite him in, a sailor, it turns out, From Cape Comorin. We sit in silence, an ear To the storms Of the mindThat brought us to this hallSo far and awayFrom our first port of call.
The 90-odd new poems in this volume grapple with the paradox of beauty and transience. A poem, these works suggest, justifies its existence not through political relevance but through its potential for catharsis – for both the poet and the reader.
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