No Season For Poetry

By Tanul Maheshwari

It's no season for poetry, this,

unremarkable, slow, unsteady.

Sparrows are chirping less

In the garden, they just perch

On the wires across the roof, bathing sun.

The sun itself, as yellow

As the turmeric in my milk

Every day, unceasing and same.

The wind is steady: no gust

of inspiration, to rustle the bangs

of the hair stuck with sweat

on my forehead.

The world seems stopped

and miserable and as wrong footed

as the split second before the train

starts from the station platform

But for now, at-least,

the sun still shines,

however bright,

The wind still blows,

however faint,

And the sparrows wait

Until it's their chance again.

The world, spinning or not,

Until is called "the world",

No season shall be

No season for poetry.

By Tanul Maheshwari