The Stage

By Indratapa Routh

The stage.

A place of almost universal dread.

And yet, I quite like the place.

Me, whose quiet voice is gasping for air

As their deliberate noise drowns it halfway.

Me, in the corner, not in a single picture

The shimmering party of my friend's birthday.

I see. I know. I still stay.

I'm still treated like they can't see me anyway.

So I plop flat down like a dead tourist spot

Lonely, while people go about their day.

Maybe that's why God invented the stage

Gave me music, as a means for redemption.

For whenever life walks me onto one

There's spotlight, and suddenly, I'm alive again.

I find the invisible hands lifting…

A force that had been pressing hard

Enough to squeeze the numb cold blood,

So long, out of my eyes, ears, mouth.

They move, and for once, I can feel

Sense returning to my sense organs.

I can tell my story! People want me to

It might mean something to someone if I do.

Then there are tiny lights flashing away

Suddenly they all want me in frozen frames.

A raised platform to drown out the noise

Magic tool in my hand to swell up my voice.

Their attention rapt– I'm heard, I'm seen

As I belt out every word I sing.

For five minutes, the world admits I exist

And I'm a brief part of someone's bliss.

For me, forever, a site of ecstasy

The stage.

By Indratapa Routh