Horizontal gravity

It is a little like the middle of the week,
    of the month, of the year ;
  most accurately, the middle of your life,
      and precisely midway the length
              of a funeral..

Written on the back of an ice cream truck, probably by a psychopath

I feel near death situations
are resolvable,with a little grit

I feel sorry for writing this
only now,but I find that

caution has plagued me; I am more
like a poet with absolutely

no idea of what safe imaginations are,
of things that are unearthly,and convenient

for that sort of thing, and I
feel sorry for myself,why not ??

feel wronged by the shape of my hands,
knowing that some of the best poems

could have been written on the back of them,
for what is a poem if not some mucilage

to stick your tongue to, and continuously
taste that terrible feeling

of relishing pain ,and its pleasure
at the same time;nuanced with

a presumable misfortune to come,
because really, if nothing can be written

about the ice cream truck ,like the world
gone ahead, you already hate getting to or

the world like the ice cream truck
honking in your intestinal voids

you may not consider this the impasse,
there is no turning back from

History of the dark room

  light, like life
      came and went through the door

Book Review by Avantika Devray in The Four Quarters Magazine

http://tfqmagazine.org/issue/august-2013/avantika-devray/

THE LAND ABOVE WATER: MANIK SHARMA, WRITERS WORKSHOP 2012

Manik Sharma’s “The Land Above Water” is a collection of thirty odd short poems that leave the reader puzzled and charmed at the same time because of their brevity, their unusual style and their equally unusual rhythm. Mostly unrhymed, these poems seem to be explorations of the poet’s mind into the less charted terrain of everyday things which have been visualised with a difference. Sharma’s poetry can put a reader to the test of being able to comprehend their character and yet create a connect through their sonority.

Notably, the titles of many of the poems seem to have no connection whatsoever with the content. One might expect something from the title at first, but as the poem proceeds, it appears that the poet has written about something completely different. So much so that one might even wonder about the relevance of the title. Perhaps it is this feature that brings them much closer to the heart than other longer and more elaborate poems. In “Living away from mother”, which is a short poem of not more than eight lines, he asks: “Why does mother/ write letters in the dark, / They rain not/ in her arms”. He manages to convey the pain dexterously, albeit in a curtailed fashion. Many of his lines move with a staccato beat, and never numb even for a moment. However, the poet does not seem to have intended to imbue many of his poems with a sense of finality. Apprehension and indecisiveness rule them as they waver throughout the collection.

‘The Auto-rickshaw diaries’ is one of the longest poems in the collection. It is structured in parts which separately narrate three different accounts of an auto-rickshaw ride. Composed of diverse images, this poem is a skilled attempt at analyzing the nuances of observation. In the first section, “By the road”, the descriptions are succinct and direct. But what stand out most evocatively are images of the breeze, the rainwater, the tree on which apples grow aplenty and the lull in the movement of the ‘tuk-tuk’ that sends the rider into an effortless siesta. However, the second and third sections give a pale and fading account into the mind of the speaker who feels as though life is slipping from his clutches. “Endless”, the final section in the book, has desperation, pain and not a little bit of pathos embedded in its verses. For example, Sharma writes, “the fatality of things/ has held me by the throat.”

Sharma’s first book of poems has the potential to interest and charm at the same time. It is a work of art, indeed, and we, as readers, may expect more from him.

-Avantika Devray(courtesy,The Four Quarters magazine)

3:51 am: Looking ahead to winter

We know,the tree trunks by the
road are unbecoming
and their malaise
is a prisoner's refuge,to behold
but all i am able to send
you is a word,to push through
like faint imprints
of your head,still visible
on the bedroom window

We know,you are not in there
not even in the backyard
buried under several
feet of snow,but is it the dog?
We don't know that for sure
but all i am able to send
you is a word,to push through
like the unclean windshield
of the car,having endured
the best days of your sweater

We know you did not leave
my sock in the water tub,
my shirts on the back of the chair
or my underwear under the pillow
but all i am still able to send
you is a word,to push through
like a sea quake,you met alone
breaking against your feet,
in middle of the night

We know,it is no surprise,
the cleverness in your absence
is shaped by your hand
and,shaped like a beginning
but all i am able to send
you is a word,to push through
like a loosely tucked
anniversary card at the
bottom of the closet

We know you had been eying
winter,through the glass of
unaccountable change,a piece of glass
that put my reasoning to death
We know that for sure
but all i am able to send
you is a word,to push through
like an elegy handed behind the back
of the man who cried the most
at this funeral of the year going by

Five seconds
   flashback? No three ! Last breath
a haiku

Needful conversations

Into the conversation she entered,ass first,protesting that the division of one's mind is not to be paid attention by bummed listeners."You can go one way,or you can go the other.There is the night when two men at the cusp,decide between a stall or walking away.But neither looks to the sky.Do you think that is changeable about you? Can you start looking at what pitches sideways?",she said or asked.There was nobody else in the room,i could see her point,despite one of us being drunk out of their mind.However,It floated somewhere beyond her vivid procreation,about the place,where i would eventually stand waiting for it to grow dark,to take a piss in the open,into a veritable hole,not even the moon could fill.