Communication Poem by Raj Arumugam

There is no feeling, there is no bond
there is no touch, there is no smoothness
there is no sincerity, no frankness
there is no connection in these continual communications.
Just efficient words and professional politeness.
(And what did you expect? A hug and a cuddle?
No one owes you a living.)
All that void is filled in with dead forms
and photocopies certified by JPs
(one seeks out these authorities at the chemist's
and at real estate agencies)
and essays meeting or not meeting identified criteria.
This is unreal the game we play.

The rules are changed this year.
This other world I meet often
through various mediums
but not in real time, real space:
the urn-box space for in-coming letters,
its lid at the back hiding spiders;
the post office and punctilious and efficient postmen
and phone calls and receptionists and secretaries
and productive people who say
I may be able to help;
and the well-spaced neatly-arranged classifieds
the black and white origins of all our
unconsummated affairs

there is a secret code
something hidden beyond what is offered
that I cannot break






(from The Migrant notes of a newcomer (February 1997- July 1998))