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Ananta Madhavan


In That Loom


In that loom there are a thousand hazards,
(Precarious, the thread of our discourse)
The streaking shuttle is a miracle.
(A thousand hazards crowd upon that loom)
Shooting through a parted symmetry;
(Invisible between our words and glances)
A thousand swords in upraised avenue,
(Precarious, the rhythm of the shuttle)
Like a ray it passes and returns,
(Rays fragile in our remembrance)
Flight-prints in a woven Odyssey.

- - - - -
1971

Submitted: Tuesday, April 29, 2014
Edited: Tuesday, April 29, 2014

Topic of this poem: girlfriend


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