Awake, I found my watch and strapped it on
My wrist. Though dark it was, I saw some light
Come seeping through the fissures of the night.
Thus reassured, I guessed it was ‘Today’,
With all left-over agendas and tasks.
I let habitual routine confirm
The continuing Self, my Raison d’etre,
In a world where all are singular.
Why must we be the willing slaves
Of measured Time, conformity and order?
These were devised for our convenience.
My trusty watch with two untiring hands
Seems to erase the numbers one to twelve
Upon its aged face, just for the nonce;
The longer hand racing past the minutes and
The shorter hand the unforgiving hours.
Gadgets unknown are counting nano-seconds,
Thus weeks and months dole out the solar years
Or lunar calculus. Plush calendars,
Drab diaries, memoirs, year-books, archives
Chronicle centuries, catastrophes,
Orbiting globes and eras gone awry.
When we elect the Here and Now, content
To see the moment as it seems to pass,
Sudden and spontaneous, Time does not pass.
Time is a human construct, a “Fourth Dimension”,
To contradict the sages who believed
In a timeless Perpetual Present.
Here and Now. A sudden squall, strong breeze
Bespatters rain-drops on the window pane,
Streaking down in threads. A band of birds
Wheel above a mansion; two wide-spanned birds
Fly arrow-straight towards their sylvan dorm.
Some of us predict the Past, imagine the Present,
Historicise the Future too. But our dates are mythical,
Our imaginings are private fictions, our predictions are
Irrelevant.
Time that is measured is only is only a strip of a Perpetual Calendar,
A fictional chronometer, a mood too subjective to serialise as
The last Act in a play without an Epilogue.
- - - - - - - - - -
February,2015
Absolutely marvelous. The expression and the analyses are spell-binding. The scholar and the poet go hand in hand to bring about this beautiful portrayal of time- the concept, reality and the myth. Thanks a lot. I saw some light.... through the fissures of the night. Time does not pass. Time is a human construct, a “Fourth Dimension”, ....But our dates are mythical.... private fictions
Yeah, every line in this poem rings true. Not a single line is redundant or misplaced. This is exactly the emotion I felt when I read the last syllable of Recorded Time. Time itself is Infinity, and has no last syllable. Only Recorded Time - the work of Man is finite.
Thank you, dear Priya, Your reading has greatly heartened me. It is worth the effort of writing and re-writing, apart from the incomparable feeling of composing a chain of words, if one can find a reader of sensitivity and fellowship. Hope all well with you. Rayudu
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
My comments and gratitude are conveyed in the notes I have added.