I live in Sparta, a small town in the hilly northwest corner of New Jersey. I came to the US in 1970 and took my graduate degree in Computer Science. Although science was somehow always the area of my academic concentration, poetry was, to me, from the very beginning, somewhat of a passion, a meditation, the only way to project what I find lies too deep for any other form of expression. ... more »
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Jay Kasturi Poems
Maine In Spring
I have a memory of a lighthouse in rain; the ocean below in cold spray, the waves among the rocks and the sky lost in gray.
Times when art is a contrivance, science a numeric construct, all thinking, effects chasing causes and dreaming an excess before sleep,
My last life, ten slices of longitudes east, is one part memory as inarticulate as childhood's innocence and the rest reconstructed
She said she never had any say, not in the sun, not under the clouds. Birth is the beginning,
The philosopher lived by the lightness of his thoughts and died under the weight of his theory.
Floating On Someone Else's Coffin
We are here for the craft of sealing every empty corner with a word or two; even if all had been learnt from the sun and the moon,
It is the generosity of living that shapes the angularity of our losses to a soothing tale, just as aging gilts the shadows into a sudden meditation on the day,
Think of these things, as you walk into the sun into your own day: a heart shattered like glass,
As the dusk passes, a sob of poetry rises in me, hyacinths broad-brushed over the dark waters;
The Vacant Hour
When there are no memories, think of yesterday reconstructed, to last through the vacant hour. What would have been,
Autumn in the northern woods. Like a frightened gypsy girl, her golden bands and scarlet scarf, wild dark eyes and curls of clouds,
When All Is Gone
The waiting and the impatience, the pining and pessimism, love’s words and silence, logic and whim, the ‘will’ and the ‘must’,
He finds himself stretched on the darkest cross, his every pore bleeding and every spear pointed at him,
For him to follow her assiduously was an act of romantic bravado like showing off the first shadow of hair on his pining chest;
Comments about Jay Kasturi
Maine In Spring
I have a memory of a lighthouse in rain;
the ocean below in cold spray,
the waves among the rocks
and the sky lost in gray.
Not a lobster trap’s marker, not a sail’s cuneiform hint,
not a gull scoring an alliterative scrawl,
just the rain’s affirming constancy.
Between the wipers on the windshield,
Hood’s November written in April’s rain.
That was twenty long years ago,
Maine in spring, in winter’s wake,
a poster, tack-torn at the corner
and fading into all that is lost.